God Almighty Reigns
by HigherMagic
Summary: The Winchesters succeeded in closing the Gates of Hell forever. What they didn't read was the fine print – apparently the demons weren't the only ones shut out, and shutting the Gates wasn't the only effect it had on the world. Years later, Castiel is alone. But there's trouble brewing in Kansas, and a familiar face has come back from the dead. Coincidence? There's no such thing.
1. In the Beginning

**Title: **God Almighty Reigns  
**Author:** HigherMagic  
**Pairing(s): **Dean/Castiel**  
Rating:** R  
**Word Count: **~55,000**  
Warnings:** character death, angst, pining, soul bonding, language and scenes of violence  
**Summary:** The Winchesters succeeded in closing the Gates of Hell forever. What they didn't read was the fine print – apparently the demons weren't the only ones shut out, and shutting the Gates wasn't the only effect it had on the world. Years later, Castiel is alone. With nowhere for human souls to go and creatures of the Earth getting hungrier and hungrier, he swore to himself that he would stay and protect humankind – until the human souls that he loved and guarded most dearly were ripped from him. Now, somehow, they're back, and Castiel must face a whole new challenge to ensure the survival of the human race – destroying those that would call him God.

* * *

**Notes: **So, this fic is actually about two years old. I started writing it in November 2012. So. That's how long it's taken me to write the damn thing. I don't even care at this point if no one fucking reads it, because I'm just so happy to have it finally finished. It's Unbeta'd, and it probably desperately needs a Beta, but whatever. I'm not even sure what the fic was it was basically me trying to write God parallels? I'm not even sure. Okay.

This fic contains graphic scenes of murder and violence, references towards genocide over 'religious beliefs', blood drinking and the dependency on blood to stay alive, as well as using blood as a ritual. Violence and sigils are used for coercion and brainwashing, and there is a certain amount of dubious consent until the end of the fic concerned with Dean's reincarnation. Also, I introduce a dog and then it dies around chapter 6 - not in a horrible way but it does die.

There is no explicit sex in this story but non-explicit references to past sexual relations. There is also an element of wing!kink and blood!kink. There is also the use of gendered slurs and implications of non-consensual sex between characters that are not the main protagonists.

I was going to make all the OCs current characters, but given that this fic takes place in the distant future where they have all died, I figured it didn't make much sense.

Have at it.

* * *

"No."

The word was whispered, cast out into the empty, open air as though it would make a difference – one last, desperate, useless plea against something that he had turned his back on years and years ago. A tired smile met his wide-eyed and fearful gaze, a palm that was wrinkled and callused and worn away to mere skin stretched over bone, slid into his, still warm, somehow, even after everything. Outside, the world was frozen, white blankets putting the Earth to sleep, mother of ice kissing her child goodnight and casting her moon into the air to watch over her child as Earth slept.

"No," the man with eyes the same color as frigid water whispered again, clutching tightly to the warm, frail hand, fingers encased in his. "Dean, please. Please."

"It'll be okay, Cas," came the reply, voice rubbed into nothingness from alcohol and smoke and too many nights shouting out condolences and speeches telling Earth to soldier on. His throat was coated with gunpowder and ashes and it was a wonder he could still speak at all. Green eyes, cloudy and glazed, flickered shut. "It's time."

He wanted to laugh, then. He was an Angel – an Angel. He should be giving this speech, the other way around, but all he could do was clutch tighter to the man's hand and try to stop his shoulders shaking. Tears made their way to his eyes; he shouldn't be crying, shouldn't be able to cry, and yet he could feel them, stinging, pressing against the backs of his lids.

"There's still so much to do," he said to Dean, making the Hunter open his eyes again. They were in a house in the middle of nowhere, and the sun had gone away. Dean smiled, one corner of his mouth quirking up. "There's still…Dean, there's still so many people."

"I know, Cas," Dean replied, exhale a tired sigh, eyes shutting again. He was silent for so long, Castiel feared he might have passed on without warning, and his Grace flared in preparation to follow. "It sucks. But we can't save everyone."

The Angel choked on a sob when Dean's other hand came forward, lying across his. "Do what you can," Dean said, swallowing to wet his mouth enough; "I'll see you on the other side, Angel."

"Dean." Those eyes closed once more, Dean's thin body expanding one more time in a loud breath, before his heart went still and he breathed out. "Dean. No." The Angel was shaking, unable to fathom – just, fathom it at all. He knew he could fly to Heaven, would find Dean waiting for him, but there was still so much to do here. He was lost and stuck and Dean was gone.

Dean was gone.

He took wing, flying away, flying up. He had to get there, had to find Dean's soul from the multitudes milling in Heaven, rejoin with his mate as quickly as he could. Already the absence, the void of nothingness where Dean's soul should be shining so bright…it was too much. The world was too dark and he had to make sure Dean was okay.

But he paused. He could not find Heaven – did not feel the soft warmth of his brothers welcoming him home. He could not hear the voices of Heaven singing, could not feel the brilliance of God's light and love surrounding him as it usually did when he approached Heaven. Something was wrong.

"No."

When he opened his eyes, he was where he had been – in a house in the middle of nowhere, still clutching so tightly to Dean's hand. His eyes widened, and he stood. "No," he whispered, taking a step back. His wings felt heavy, dreadfully heavy, and his hands were shaking when he let go.

Where was Dean? Where was Heaven?

He could find neither of them.

No, no no no, "No!" he shouted, his Grace flaring out sharply enough that the windows shattered, sending glass flying, and the oil lamp that had been burning by Dean's bedside exploded, showering the pair in a sea of glass. Castiel breathed out raggedly, running a hand through his hair, and turned back towards Dean. The Hunter was older, so much older, his face haggard and worn with time, hair greying where there was any hair left, skin dark from the sun, lips turning blue. The moon shone through the broken windows, playing like young Angels off the shards of reflective glass.

Castiel approached Dean slowly, his bare feet crunching into the glass, pain prickling him to remind him he was still alive – dreadfully, horribly alive. "Where have you gone?" he asked of the man, the man who had become his anything, everything and all, and he received no answer. There was nothing. Heaven was silent. "Where are you?"

* * *

When the world ended, it was not by fire, nor was it by smoke and ash and pain and a wave of demon-angel battles. The Bible told of the Kingdom of Heaven coming to Earth, wiping the planet clean to make way for those that had made it into the Kingdom, but in reality the Apocalypse is a lot messier than that.

When the world ended, it was not through the clash of two brothers, two vessels of the most powerful beings ever to walk the Earth. It was not as the Angels and demons had foreseen it. Not even close.

When the world ended, it was…silent. Sudden.

There were two Hunters who very few people knew the names of – both then and now – and these Hunters tried to shut the Gates of Hell forever, banishing all of the demons in the process. This plan was desperate, and foolhardy, and doomed to fail.

But it did not fail.

The cataclysmic event of wiping the Earth clean of all demon taint caused the very Earth to shiver. Across the globe most demons that were weakened or vulnerable shattered to pieces with unearthly shrieks of pain – others were dragged, kicking and screaming, by their own Hounds. Volcanoes, long-dormant around the desert areas of California, a stone's throw away from the small town of Ridgecrest, erupted in a spew of gases and debris. Such was the volume, building up as though waiting for the right time, that it covered the sun, and enveloped the Americas and parts of Europe and Australia and Japan, throwing most of the world into a modern ice age.

People survived, as people often do; they were desperate, they were cold, and there was nothing stopping them from dying, from being wiped out by famine or disease or hypothermia. Groups met up with other groups, small bands of survivors able to bear the cold and able to walk for miles without much food.

A new civilization was established in Florida, or what remained of Florida, and the people elected a leader. Two of them, actually. No one knows their names anymore; they were lost in history. But they were strong and brave people and knew what to do when those things that were not human turned on the remaining survivors – knew how to repel and kill the things with claws and teeth that hunted after the last of the human blood.

The modern world faded. Industry became non-existent; if it couldn't run by the labor of man or animal or the burning of fuels, then it didn't run. New forms of hydroelectricity, and solar and wind harnessing once the dust cleared, brought new waves of luxury. Cars were left in favor of wagons and boats; animals could find better grip on the still-thawing world. Coal fires and steam-powered engines were the new things.

And hunters continued.

They had to; a lot of people died when the volcanoes erupted and spread their deadly fumes over America, spread to take over the Antarctic, Australasia, even going so far as to take most of Europe and Africa. Other things happened, rifts were created through the sudden movement and thrust of tectonic plates, and the World was born anew.

But that left behind a lot of pissed off spirits.

Shape shifters, Werewolves, Vampires, Cursed beings…none of them died of fire or ice or wind or smoke or starvation or disease. None of them left; Reapers continued but there weren't enough of them. The tallies of the dead ran high and behind them all were the hunters.

Keeping their existence a secret wasn't really an option, not anymore. The World embraced hunters as a necessity, a lesser of two evils. In exchange for their services they were well cared for, paid for generously by whatever government had been salvaged, into clans that vaguely resembled the Former States in America. But none of them were United. They were merely tolerant.

Some people learned how to shoot a perfect bulls-eye and how to slice through skin and bone with enough force to sever a limb or a head. Lifestyles that had never been in the light before became the focus of living – libraries were packed with ways to hunt and kill and survive.

Those that were not man, but were not monster; the Angels that had been in vessels on the Earth and the demons that had been strong enough to resist such a spell – well, they stayed. They were human, for all intents and purposes. One has never been taken down a peg until he finds himself unable to jump out of his 'monkey suit'.

Those angels and demons became human; slow, weak, stupid, hungry, thirsty, prone to injury or infection. They had to begin to rely on the beings that had Hunted them, worked with them in exchange for protection from each other, from the cold, from enemies that wanted their heads. Every case an Angel or Demon helped a Hunter solve made sure that that Angel or Demon lived another few months, until he or she and that Hunter parted ways.

But over time they faded. They lost their wings, their powers. Cut off from Heaven and Hell they fell, one by one until they were no more celestial than the vessels they carried. And one by one those vessels that were strong enough fought back, overcame the demons that possessed them and the angels that had been granted permission to enter; they were no longer welcome. Occasionally one could still see a range of black smoke or a shooting star that was one of those beings finding a new host, or being forced from an old one, or simply wandering the plains. At night in the deserts you can hear the high-pitched scream of an Angel in the silence.

Those demons that could not go on, or did not want to, sought out the knife of the demon named Ruby, and ended their own lives. Some of them didn't want to live as smoke, or live at all if the world was damned and cut off from the source of their power – Hunters were smarter, now, and they mercilessly tracked those demons that remained. The knife was melted by the hilt into a stone in the middle of where the White House used to be, blade up for any demon to fall on if they wished to.

But the Angels faded.

The Demons left Earth.

The Hunters continued hunting.

Many, many years later, though mutation from the ash, a genetic failsafe mode, whatever it should be called – a switch flipped, and humanity recovered from its shock. The world began to thaw again. For the first time in centuries, people could remember what the color green was. And there began to sprout these creatures – human on the outside, but with wings and powers, abilities beyond the human norm.

The Hunter crouched down low, long machete at the ready and pressed up against her thigh, one hand curling around the edge of a broken piece of concrete that she had chosen to take shelter behind. This was the fifth case in as many weeks of people going missing, but she'd managed to catch the son of a bitch in the act this time.

This thing – it was new. It wasn't a vampire because the folks it fed from were still alive. It wasn't a werewolf because timing didn't seem to mean shit to it. This thing took a bite and left its consenting host behind – a feeder that had told her it had taken him out into this very warehouse, explained to him that it needed a bite to stay alive and that it would only take it if the victim freely gave. Weirdest and most polite creature she'd ever heard of.

It was how Natalie Grant discovered a whole new species that had managed to stay under the radar since the Great Fall.

There was movement, and she perked up, tightening her grip on her weapon. There it was – leading the way for a nineteen-year-old boy, and she watched as the creature turned, pushing at the human male until he was pressed up against a wall, and fell to its knees in front of him. The creature was the shape of a man and had feathery wings sticking out of its back, the color of midnight and tipped with bronze, brushing the floor. Its eyes were the same color – hazel mixed with brown and filled with an almost desperate plea as it looked up at the human from underneath a mane of dark brown hair, holding a small penknife in its hand. It knelt in a posture of almost complete submission, like a dog desperate to obey its master. Natalie watched, tensed and ready to fight as the human reached down in silence, taking the knife from the creature's hand. Long, pale fingers curled around the handle as the two males' eyes met, and the human nodded.

"Yes," he said, sounding breathless, right before he turned the blade on himself and ran the sharp edge right along the inside of his arm. Natalie ran forward – this was some sort of mind trick, the creature making the human bleed himself dry – and stopped at seeing the absolute joy, devotion radiating from the creature's smile. Its odd, bronze-colored eyes zeroed in on the red line, but it didn't move; waited for permission before the human nodded again and held his arm in front of the open mouth. The creature's wings – fragile-looking and soft as gossamer silk – fluttered slightly in anticipation, lips parting and breathing heavy as the creature brought his hands up around the wrist, holding it tenderly before he sealed his lips around the wound and began to suck.

Again, Natalie was tempted to rush forward, but found she was unable to. It wasn't as though she couldn't…it was more like her mind was telling her body to watch, to be patient. She was about to make one of the greatest discoveries in Hunter history since the Devil's Trap.

The human's fingers curled into a fist, prey-animal body fighting the feeling of teeth against his skin, a tongue probing at his cut like a cat at milk, but then his body began to relax, his head falling back against the steel pillar of the warehouse Natalie had followed the creature to. Since the Hunter was unwilling to stop what was going on, she found herself monitoring instead; finding if what she'd interviewed the victims to find out had really been accurate.

They sure as hell seemed to be; all the 'victims' – she was highly doubting they were victims now – had all described the same thing; a beautiful winged man took them out into some warehouse in the middle of nowhere – check – and basically asked them to cut themselves. It wasn't as though he was forcing them to, though…he just seemed like a desperate man in need of a favor. The blade never hurt, the blood loss was never too great and it never actually harmed the person. Within a day the cut was healed, skin unmarred good as new, and during…

That's when it had begun to get weird. That's what had drawn Natalie's attention.

The humans always seemed to enjoy being drunk from. Natalie's mouth twisted, watching the boy, remembering the flush that had been on a girl's face – the latest in the string of victims – the sink of her teeth into her lower lip, the way her legs had crossed, her breathing unsteady when she remembered. As though the bite had felt incredible.

That much was evident in the way the human's jeans had tented, revealing the very obvious erection underneath and he was very subtly moving his hips, trying to get friction against fabric and air. The actions weren't lost on the creature as he pulled away, chin coated lightly in blood which he wiped with a sleeved forearm – another thing that marked him as 'other'; his light clothes despite the chill of the new world, dressed only in a thin, long-sleeved shirt and jeans ripped at the knees. He pushed himself to his bare feet in a lithe, graceful movement, wings falling to counter the shift in balance and trailing along the grubby warehouse floor. Natalie felt a stab of remorse at such beautiful things being so dirty.

"Thank you," the creature said, and the voice was unlike anything the Hunter had ever heard. It sounded from a long way off – could something be clear and so full of static at the same time? The voice was accompanied with a high-pitched whine, soft but irritating in the back of the Hunter's mind.

The human didn't seem to care.

"Thank you so much," the creature repeated, one hand trailing down the human's chest in a sure, deft stroke, ending at the button of his jeans. Natalie tensed again – after all, it wouldn't be unusual at all for a creature like this to kill his victim after whatever he'd just done, but then again why not just drain him dry? Why thank him? The creature unbuttoned and loosened the fly of the human's jeans, reaching in with long, pale fingers and undoubtedly getting a firm grip on the other male's erection. The human gasped, jaw clenching almost painfully as he threw his head back. The creature's other hand came up to knot in his hair and cushion him from the blow he would have caused to the back of his head.

The creature stroked, twisting his hand, firm, loose, firm, he seemed to know exactly what the human wanted, for within a minute the teenager was coming, cry of ecstasy echoing loud and rough along the cold, metallic walls. His eyes closed for the briefest second, and so did Natalie's, and when the Hunter opened his eyes again the creature was gone. The only evidence that it had ever been there was the dark patch of semen on the human's jeans and the blood clotting around his wrist.

Natalie begun investigating, then, calling in contacts she hadn't heard of, spoken to, Hell some of them she didn't even know the names of in his research, but the leather-bound journal she'd found in front of a Hell's Gate had never led her astray before. The thing was legendary – it had once belonged to the two greatest hunters the world has ever known.

* * *

So the Angels left, faded, and changed, the journal said. They evolved, just as everything must – as they fell, human desires for food and survival began to take over. They shied away from getting too close to fire and were wary of old and rotting buildings. They knew the desire for a warm body to keep them company at night.

Natalie documented her search and knowledge about these knew creatures. Their essences could not handle human food or drink, and relied off of human blood to sustain them – they only needed small amounts and never took what was not willingly given. Natalie dubbed them 'Angelus Subsannatio' meaning 'Angel Mockers'. Eventually, as the populace of Hunter and Civilian alike grew in their knowledge, the name of them was shortened to 'Mockers'.

And so the Mockers spread. It seemed that now people knew what to look for, they were cropping up everywhere. The only problem was that not all Hunters were open to the idea of them sharing the same breathing space and when they discovered them, they were intent on their extermination.

Natalie wouldn't have that.

She established a foundation with like-minded Hunters and Civilians to save these creatures from extinction. They were precious, and non-threatening, and the only thing Man had left to tie him to Heaven, to God. She believed with all her heart that they should be saved, treasured, and so she began a missionary service. When the demands of the job became too harsh on her fifty-year-old body, she retired from actively saving them and ran a Haven for the creatures she had discovered, where they could come and be safe from the persecution of Hunters.

And that's when it got interesting.

These creatures had powers, just like their Angel and Demon predecessors. They were psychics of a sort, could see things others couldn't, could fly, teleport, and cast illusions. Some of them had more specialist powers than others, and it was then, as these things became more widespread knowledge, that they stopped being hunted, and started to be recruited. Mockers began to be sought out for specialist jobs, companions on a Hunting trip, tools for Hunting and partners for Hunters and Humans alike. The creatures didn't seem to mind this; being treated as no more than a piece of weaponry – as long as they were fed properly they were happy. They were such benign creatures, so kind-hearted and willing to serve that eventually…eventually…they were almost accepted as people. Do-gooders in the world. One could often hear stories about how one of the creatures saved a bunch of human lives, or helped stop an evil spirit, or even just showed any kindness to a fellow creature…They were less like pets and more like servants.

And they didn't mind one bit.

The sanctuary turned under new management; a man named Alex Maher took over after Natalie died and turned the place into more like a breeding ground and hatchery, for Hunters and Civilians to buy the creatures as they pleased. A law was passed that a human could have no more than three Mockers in their home, but it didn't really seem to matter to anyone who wanted to buy them. It was recommended that they were purchased whilst still in their egg – they stayed for approximately two months after being laid by their carrier – to strengthen their bond and sense of servitude, like a baby bird would do to the first thing it sees, assuming that is its mother. So far as people had reported, it didn't matter what gender the owner was, or what gender the Mocker was for breeding – they had adapted to survive whatever might happen to them. Some people theorized that they could alter their outward shape to become whatever the buyer wanted.

What people had not yet realized – what Natalie had no way of discovering before she passed on to wherever souls were meant to go now after life here – was that Mockers were not the only things still hanging around, that had grown from the end of the world. After all, something had to have happened to start this, right?

It couldn't have been simple evolution.


	2. Exodus

The crop came down harshly across the Mocker's back. Not really enough to cause damage, but enough to hurt, to let the Mocker know it was there. Some would question such methods being used on one of these creatures, but luckily – or perhaps not – the only eyes to witness it were those of the man wielding the whip. He struck down again, this time on the shoulder and right where the wings began to separate from the body, drawing a sharp hiss from the creature. Instinctively it folded its wings in, and they began to shimmer in and out of perception as the creature tried to hide them, but another crack of the whip was his sharp reprimand.

"Keep them open," barked the man, the 'Caretaker', as the Mockers called him. Usually such optimistic and loving creatures, born from a perverse mix of demon passion and angelic grace, looked at the man with the love and adoration a child looks at its parent with, for after all the Caretaker was responsible for the care of his charges. He fed them well, kept them healthy with many opportunities to fly or play with each other in the large compound, and cleaned their wings and helped them when they got injured during rough play. The creature kneeling in front of the Caretaker was the oldest by far of any Mockers – it looked to be about thirty years old, at least in physique. Mockers grew fast. In reality it was much, much older. Not that any of the humans would ever get to know that.

The Mocker ducked its head, hoping to shove away another blow, bright blue eyes falling closed and dark hair falling forward to hide its face. The Caretaker knelt down in front of the creature and took a hold of his chin – it had taken on the human appearance of a male, but that didn't stop the Caretaker seeing the thing as just that; a thing. Bright blue met dark brown and held, one trying to freeze the other, force the other to look away.

This Mocker wasn't like the rest. Aside from the fact that he was perhaps the only one left to be so mature and still not owned, he also didn't really share the same attitude as the others. They were always willing to serve, to do anything as long as it meant they were fed and cared for, but he didn't. Not really. In fact, he didn't seem to see the world as tit for tat; in this Mocker's eyes the world could go to Hell – again – for all he cared. Apathy radiated from every pore of the creature. It wasn't malevolent, but neither was it kind and considerate.

There were only a select group of people that Castiel had ever shown feeling for, and those people had lived out their human lives long ago.

"This buyer's pretty much the only shot you got left, you hear me? It's this or nothing." Castiel resisted the urge to snarl – his upper lip twitched slightly in an aborted movement – it was an empty threat. Even if no one bought him, Castiel would never be dealt away with. Natalie's will had made sure of that. Instead he blinked, gave a slow, deliberate nod, and almost smirked when the Caretaker huffed and pulled away, correcting his position every so often with a tap of his crop.

If one knew much or anything about Castiel, rather than what he let others perceive of him, one might ask what in God's holy name is an Angel of the Lord doing kneeling in front of a man and allowing himself to be bought, sold and treated like a pet.

Everyone knew that the Angels had fallen and been forced out of their hosts during the Apocalypse, but Castiel had been harboring an empty vessel – there was no soul inside of him to reclaim its body. Half-way to fallen anyway, the Angel had remained. He helped Dean and Sam Winchester when the world was thrust into snow and ice and demons. He was the advisor when Humanity had elected the Winchesters to be their new leaders, united as Hunters and Brothers and Friends with ties far past the normal supernatural.

A paradox in itself, since they were the ones who caused all that mess.

But Castiel had stayed near Dean and Sam, protecting them and the last dredges of humanity as the race in itself recovered from the Ice Age. He'd remained as sometimes the only protector of the Earth and those that inhabited it.

Castiel had, almost singlehandedly, kept humanity from extinction.

Sam had been the one to go first. There was nothing Castiel could have done about it; Sam was ready to go, he didn't want to accept Castiel's help. And no one should live forever. Dean made it another four years without his brother before age and old hunting wounds and the cry of his soul for his brother overcame him and he followed on.

When Dean died, the Angel was broken. Dean had gone somewhere that, now, for once, the Angel could not follow. He'd watched as his brothers would smite whole cities, whole continents, for the sins against God. He'd witnessed when the Apocalypse came in the form of an eruption, and he'd done nothing, hadn't shed a single tear.

But when Dean Winchester gave his final breath, the Angel had cried.

They say that the tears of an Angel are pure sorrow, shaking the foundations of the Earth itself, as nothing so pure should ever feel pain. But Castiel had fallen enough that he felt it, the throbbing ache of a lost loved one deep in his chest and frankly the Angel had never recovered from it. He moved like a ghost between the centuries, watched Sam's children die, watched Bobby die, watched all those he'd come to call friends be taken by Reapers and led into the next life. Castiel had borne witness to the bringing of ice, and then its shifting and moving on. He'd watched as humanity was born anew.

All the while feeling nothing.

There were no Angels left, and the only way an Angel can die is through another Angel. Castiel couldn't even cross the boundaries to Heaven to see if Dean was there – or maybe even into Hell. He was truly and utterly alone, and so…

He'd created the Mockers. Not created so much as aided in their conception. As the Angels fell they became human, and that meant that meant they had urges. The natural instinct of every species is to procreate and pass on their genetic material. The first had been between an Angel named Ezekiel and a human called Maria, and that had been the first Mocker.

Castiel was alerted, of course, because now the Angels had to respect him. He was the only one of them left. He'd cared for the egg, nurtured it until it had hatched and taught it everything about humanity – how beautiful humans could be. When he'd discovered the necessity for blood, Castiel had taught the fledgling to only take from a consenting human – Angels could only inhabit a vessel that had agreed to it, and so Castiel had passed on that inborn knowledge to the child – Aiden.

Castiel raised Aiden for a while, before he became aware that there were others like the child. Castiel left Ezekiel, Maria and their son, traveling the world to find the other fledglings that would be born from human and Angel or Angel and Demon mating.

There were exactly sixty-six of them, and Castiel found them all, taught them all the right way of living, the right way to do things.

When the parents of those fledglings asked him why, he would just watch them, head tilted on one side just a little. The expression would have been one of an innocent child had it not been for the deep pain reflecting in his eyes, in the way his lips quirked up just a little, for just a second, and then fell again and the Angel would look away, disappearing with a flutter of his wings.

What it really came down to, was that Castiel was not needed here anymore – he was the only thing left that caused trouble in this facility. He needed to be on the road again; something was pulling him Westward and he had nothing else to do but follow it.

The door opened and Castiel assumed his knelt position again, which he had let go lax while lost in the painful, fluid sands of time. He'd lost the ability to bend time, go back to when Dean was alive; otherwise he would have, and made sure he was gone before Heaven's gate shut. There, at least, he wasn't allowed to feel anything at all. It was better than pain and loneliness. Footsteps echoed, the sound of heavily booted feet on linoleum flooring and then Castiel felt body heat next to him. His wings fluttered uneasily but he kept them open and visible. Another thing that people found unique about the Angel – his wings were solid black with a tiny flicker of silver around the edges, whereas usually the feathers towards the tips were coated bronze or red, sometimes blues and greens and various other hues. They tended to tie in with the color of the Mockers' eyes, but there was no blue to mirror the deep, bright ice of Castiel's eyes, which he kept trained on the floor as the potential buyer stepped more closely to him.

Castiel didn't want to be bought, not really – he would have rather been allowed to go on his merry way, but even though Mockers were known about nowadays, one that was not escorted was enough to make people uneasy, and so he had to have a human companion to stay with. Not that it really mattered to him one way or another; let the world do what it may to him. The only people in his life that had meant anything to him personally had gone; had died of old age many years ago.

"Here he is." The gruff Caretaker's voice snapped Castiel out of yet another sink into the past, making him straighten his back just a little, letting his wings fall to the ground to rest next to him, bent so the joints came forward and rested against his thighs and shins, the upper part of the join fully covering his bare back. Castiel had long forgone Jimmy's original attire for something more freeing. He often just wore jeans and a t-shirt with slits cut into the back for his wings, which had solidified much more since he'd fallen. Odd, since falling in itself meant no longer being an Angel, but Castiel had retained them and they'd solidified, so now he either had to cloak them or let them show.

Mockers could make theirs fold into their bodies. Castiel's were too large for that.

The man's footsteps came closer and Castiel closed his eyes, pressing his lips together. A deep breath took the buyer's scent into his lungs – he smelled of the outside, the ever-present chill of their thawing world, but with something woodsy and musky underneath as well, as though he had been traveling for a while and through vast forests and was on the open road a lot. It heartened Castiel a little, to know that humanity had not become lazy and sedentary again.

The buyer blew out a short breath and Castiel raised his eyes to meet those of the man.

He froze.

It was impossible. It couldn't be…

Indeed, there were a few differences. His skin was paler than his, with fewer freckles across the bridge of his nose, and his blonde-brown hair was too long and fell across his eyes, but those were the same deep, bright green, darker around the edges than in the middle, flecks of gold and shale in the iris never the same place as when he last blinked. Hidden behind the fringe of hair, it made Castiel frustrated that he couldn't see them more clearly; made him want to push that stupid hair out of the man's eyes to see them. The man's build wasn't as obvious as his – he looked like Castiel imagined he might have when he was still in high-school – lean, without so much muscle as when he had thrown himself into the Hunting business once and for all. His mouth was different, lips chapped and pale and thinner than his had been, but…

His soul. That was…Dean.

It had to be Dean.

He's come back for me. That was all Castiel could think of, despite the fact that it was impossible – despite the fact that Heaven was shut, and so was Hell, and Castiel shouldn't even be able to see a person's soul, since he hadn't since The Second Fall, and the fact that he was seeing this one meant he had either finally snapped, or it was true and Dean was…back.

It was impossible.

Castiel bit his lip, keeping back the name just in time, because even if this man wasn't Dean, he looked enough like him and his soul shone brightly enough that Castiel almost felt like the past centuries had been a dream. One horrible, too-long dream.

The Angel's wings rustled slightly as he shifted them, ducking his head back down as he had been taught to 'display' himself – sickening, if he were to be honest – but the man shook his head, Castiel saw him frown a little out of the corner of his eye. "Why is he kneeling?" he asked, soft-spoken and sounding a little angry. "Why are you kneeling?"

A direct question. That was a new one, and Castiel couldn't hold back his smile. Trust Dean to challenge everything. "It's what we're meant to do," he replied with a shrug of his shoulders, his hands moving from where he had clasped them behind his back, to rub over his thighs. His palms were starting to sweat. He pushed up from his knees, perched on the balls of his feet so that he could better see the man whose soul shone so bright and familiar. "I don't understand it either."

The soul flared brightly as the man smiled, reaching up to shove his long fringe out of his face, and jerked his head up. "Come on, no sense you talkin' to my stomach." Castiel blinked at him and rose, his wings shifting to accommodate his change of balance as they flared out briefly and then settled to a more comfortable position, relaxed behind him. "What's your name?"

"Castiel," the Angel replied, blinking again when the Dean-lookalike nodded, pursing his lips slightly in thought as he looked the creature up and down.

"You don't look like other Mockers," he said thoughtfully, and Castiel smiled. "Don't act like them either."

"I don't think a few minutes in my company is any bearing on how I actually act," Castiel replied coolly, shrugging once more and digging his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans as he had learned to do from watching humanity. "I am here to, for lack of a better term, sell myself to you."

The man laughed, eyes widening at the comment as though taken by surprise that Castiel might have a sense of humor, and the Angel smiled softly. His laughter sounded like Dean's, and for one single moment Castiel hoped beyond belief for two different things at once – he hoped to be bought by this man, to stay by his side until he, too, died, and at the same time he wished for the exact opposite, because it felt like his very heart was aching, seeing this person who looked and laughed so much like Dean. It was insane. Incredible. Impossible.

And he wanted.

"Can you hunt?" the man asked after he had recovered from his laughter, flashing white teeth in his smile.

Castiel nodded. "Yes."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Just 'yes'?"

"Would you like a list?" Castiel asked, cocking his head to one side.

The man shook his head, snorting in amusement. "Nah, man, I believe you. You have that look about you," he replied with a slight smile and Castiel merely nodded, averting his eyes. It hurt to keep looking at the brightness of the man's soul.

"I'll take him." The words snapped Castiel's eyes back to the man, who had turned around to look at the Caretaker, still hovering in the doorway to watch the proceedings. The Caretaker raised a brow and muttered something under his breath, and then shrugged and slinked away, no doubt to get the paperwork for the transfer of ownership.

Dean-lookalike snorted. "He's just a basket of roses, isn't he?"

"He's delightful," Castiel dead-panned, which caused the man to laugh again.

"Well, come on then, places to go, people to see and all that," he said, gesturing for Castiel to walk ahead of him.

"What is your name?" Castiel asked as he walked with the man out of the room, down the corridors to the main office where he would be signed away to this new life. The place seemed so bleak and grey with the stranger's soul shining, blinding him.

He had almost expected the man's name to be Dean, or Sam, or something so equally painful that he would be unable to bear it, but that was not the case. "Daniel," the man replied, smiling a little, and Castiel nodded. Daniel.

Daniel, he could do.

* * *

"Castiel!"

Signing over the Angel's ownership had been a breeze – almost as though the facility was eager to get rid of him, and Castiel could only think with a small, tight smile that it wouldn't take any stretch of the imagination for it to be so. He wasn't loved by the Caretaker in charge of this facility, it was no secret by any means – because he didn't duck his head and blindly obey, he didn't jump when the Caretaker said 'jump', he was not bound to serve humanity through a dependency on their blood – he lived and he served simply because he could, because he wanted to, and the humans didn't like that. They didn't like something that they couldn't explain.

If only he could explain it.

The Angel turned, wings fanning out in instinctive welcome – he recognized the voice of the young fledgling, the most recent to be born to the breeding grounds. She was young and willowy even by a Mocker's standards – barely sixteen months old but already walking and talking as an adult and most likely destined to be a child's playmate – usually female Mockers were sold into that route.

"Olivia," he murmured, kneeling down to catch the young female as she ran straight into his arms, her long blonde hair ruffling against his stubbled jaw as she buried her face in his neck, her golden-honey-fringed wings flapping erratically in distress. He shot an apologetic look to Daniel, who was watching the proceeding with a neutral expression, and shushed the fledgling gently, rubbing a hand through her hair until she calmed. "Olivia, sweetheart, what's the matter? Where is your mother?"

"Grace said you were leaving," the young female hiccupped, her words barely audible against the skin of Castiel's neck, and the Angel sighed, closing his eyes. He had been here a long time, a constant presence for almost six generations of Mockers. He'd imagine leaving here, to them, would be like saying goodbye to their ancestor, their leader. "Where are you going?"

Castiel sighed again, pressing his face into her hair and inhaling the scent of lilies and rain coming off her small body – Olivia was so lovely and kind and gentle. She would make a good companion for a young human child when the time came. He would miss her and her Dam and Sire, along with her sister Grace. He had known them well. All of them.

"Somewhere else," is all he said in reply, fingers curling around her little body as tightly as he dared as he gently pulled her away from him, his large black wings still wrapped tight around her and soothing down the small, downy feathers fluffing up along her wings in her distress. Wisps of her hair had fallen forward and he brushed them back behind her ear with a small, sad smile. "You see this man?" he asked, changing the subject and tilting his head a little towards where Daniel was standing – the man's face hadn't changed, but his familiar soul shone so brightly Castiel found it hard to look at directly. Olivia stared right through him. "He's a special man, and he needs my help. That's what we do, isn't it, sweetheart? We help people?"

The little girl sniffed, biting hard into her lower lip and wiping at her cheeks. "Yeah," she mumbled, not sounding happy about it, but at least she wasn't clinging so tightly anymore, and Castiel chuckled, placing a small kiss to her forehead and murmuring a blessing that, for all he knew, meant nothing anymore, into her skin, before he stood.

"Don't worry, young one," he said to her, resting his hand on her head for one more long moment before letting go and withdrawing his wings so they no longer had any more contact between them. "Go find your mother, Olivia. I'm sure she's worried, looking for you."

The little girl sniffed again, taking a deep breath, and for a moment Castiel was proud of her, for being so brave. Under any other circumstances he might have stayed and taken care of her and the rest of the Mockers here, but things had changed. He could feel the pull now, so strong and magnetic, back towards this man, this shining soul that he had long given up on ever seeing again. He swallowed and watched her turn and patter back towards the pens, watched her leave until Daniel coughed slightly, breaking the silence, and he turned icy eyes back towards the man.

So Goddamn familiar. It would take a long time before Castiel could look at him without desperately wanting to touch him, to adore him, to fall down on his knees in worship to the human soul he had devoted his entire existence to. Instead, he was saving people, hunting things…right back in the business.

Would Dean's soul be disappointed in him? Would he ever find out?

Daniel's dark green eyes were watching him appraisingly, his neutral expression falling for one of clear interest, like he had discovered a shiny new weapon or some animal that no one had ever seen before. He licked his lips, eyes tracking down Castiel's thin body and back up to his eyes, soul pulsing brightly in his body enough that Castiel had to duck his head and shield his eyes. Dean was so bright, more than Castiel ever remembered him being – was it his memory that had dulled, or the entire world around that bright, shining beacon of light and hope? Cheesy as he knew it sounded, and he knew Dean would have made fun of him for saying it, he knew he would follow that light as long as it was burning, now that he had found it again.

But Daniel's careful scrutiny made him uncomfortable, and he cleared his throat. "Did you have a Hunt in mind?" he asked instead of all the other things he wanted to say; do you remember, are you who I think you are, what do you see when you look at me – Dean? Dean? Dean?...

The Hunter's eyes cleared, and he smiled a little, nodding his head. "Yep. Got a pack of rugaru westward, in Kansas. Gonna need more firepower than just what I can carry," he said, demeanor changing completely back to what Castiel had seen in the viewing room when he had been sold to this man, as Daniel shouldered his bag and turned on his heel to exit the facility – exit what had been Castiel's life for more years than he would care to count (care to, but did, every minute, every second since his Hunter had breathed his last breath).

Their breaths misted in the cool air and Castiel shivered, closing his eyes. The world was still frigid, but it was still here, spinning on happily, and he had to be content with that, for now.

He followed Daniel down the long pathway that led from the facility's reception to the grassy knoll that served as hitching posts for the horse-drawn wagons and the rare steam-powered engines one might see occasionally nowadays in the richer parts of the world, wordlessly falling into step behind the man as they approached a large wagon, big enough for three men to sleep comfortably side-by-side, a box on wheels with a large canvas roof, and two horses were attached to the front, grazing lazily on the sparse grass – a strawberry roan gelding and a black mare. The animals looked up at their master's approach, ears forward and alert, nostrils flaring. Steam was rising gently off their backs and Castiel had to wonder just how far Dean – Daniel – had traveled to get to this facility for 'more firepower'.

And that didn't make sense either – rugaru were generally solitary creatures, only coming together to mate or in their human years before the hunger for human flesh would overtake them. That there would be two, let alone a whole pack was unusual to Castiel. But it had been a long time since he had ventured out into the land of the living – perhaps he had lost touch with the instincts and habits of desperate supernatural creatures.

He was jarred out of his thoughts by a clatter inside of the cart, and immediately he reached forward to pull Daniel back, one wing flaring out defensively as he fought to put himself between the man who held such a precious soul inside of him and the perceived danger.

"Woah, Castiel, what the Hell?" Daniel demanded, at the same time a metal cooking pot fell out of the back of the wagon, followed by the stumbling form of a woman, cursing as she lost the inevitable fight with gravity.

"Ow!" she hissed, landing in a heap on the icy ground. "Son of a -."

"You okay?" Daniel called over Castiel's wing, and the Angel felt the warm flush of Daniel's hand pushing at his wing, crushing the feathers against his skin as he forced it to fold and stepped around Castiel, hurrying to the fallen women and helping her up.

"Damn it," she hissed, brushing her long hair out of her face – almost the same color as Daniel's, but darker and bleached with highlights from the sun in places, and tied up loosely with a knot at the back so that long strands of fringe fell in front of her face. "Bruised my ass but nothing hurt worse than my pride," she replied with a grin, picking up the fallen pot and tossing Daniel a wing. Castiel felt his feathers bristling in response to that look and he had no idea why.

Well, he had some idea why, but it was a ridiculous idea and so he did his best to ignore it.

"This it?" she asked instead, turning eyes that were a mix of blue and green and hazel onto Castiel with a nod of her head, and Daniel nodded, turning so that he could see the both of them.

"Yep, Castiel, meet Sarah. She's, ah…we Hunt together."

Castiel swallowed, accepting that with a small nod, and chose to ignore the small amount of pain he felt at that knowledge – though they may have been related, he did not see enough similarity in them to know for sure, and even before him Dean had made no secret of loving women. It would make sense to him for Daniel and his female companion to be sleeping together, and he had no claim on Daniel as a man – his soul clearly didn't recognize Castiel and, well…well, that was irrelevant. It didn't matter. Castiel would still follow Dean. He had to. There was nothing else for him to do.

The Angel bowed his head in greeting to the woman, but said nothing else. She raised an eyebrow. "Chatty one, this one," she said with a small laugh, hoisting herself back into the wagon, pan in tow. "Well, let's go, those rugaru aren't gonna light themselves on fire."

Castiel's mouth twisted when Daniel laughed – his voice was too high, just that little bit too wrong for Castiel's liking, but that made it easier. If he closed his eyes and didn't breathe and tried not to think about the rhythm of his Hunter's heart he could pretend, almost, that this was just another man he needed to help – that this wasn't everything, a second chance he never asked for and never thought he would receive.

Silently, climbing into the back of the wagon and wrapping his wings tight around himself for warmth, he sent a silent Thank you prayer up to Heaven, knowing it would probably never penetrate the Gates and beyond to be heard, but he sent it anyway. Because sometimes even Angels had to blindly believe.

* * *

Mockers needed sleep – Daniel and Sarah knew this, had studied the things extensively before committing to buying one, and even before that one of their contacts had been very savvy on the creatures, owning one of the largest breeding grounds in the North Americas. Why, instead of going to that one, they chose one in the south of Florida, they couldn't say. Well, Sarah couldn't say. Daniel had a feeling – a pull. He needed to choose from that stock. Maybe they bred better Hunters down there, he didn't know, he didn't care.

He just knew that as soon as he had seen that black-winged Mocker kneeling on the floor, icy eyes drilling holes into the ground, he knew that this was the one they needed on their Hunt. How, he had no fucking idea, but he put it down to the thing's attitude – he had never seen a Mocker that gave so little care about his life. While the Hunter in him said it was a good idea to have something that was brave and wouldn't back down from a fight, another part of him wondered why, what must have happened to the usually so-bright and loving and downright submissivecreatures to put that chip of ice in his eye and the twist to his mouth that spoke of pain and sorrow.

They had been driving for a couple of hours when Sarah joined him on the front of the wagon, holding her hands out silently to take the reins so that Daniel could climb into the back and rest. He cast his eyes over to her, appraising her out of the corner of his eye, and sighed. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Knew that look anywhere – that tight-lipped frown and slight furrowing between her eyebrows. He knew that look.

At his question, her frown deepened. "The Mocker," she said, flicking the whip lightly at the gelding's flank as he had begun to veer off the road, tempted by the sparse grass on either side. "He's…not what I was expecting."

Understatement of the century. Daniel nodded in agreement, sighing heavily enough that his breath misted in front of him, torn away by the light, steady breeze. "Yeah, definitely not how they were described," he noted.

"Even down to his wings," Sarah continued, almost as if she hadn't heard Daniel, clearly lost in thought. "They're so solid, like they're being forced to be there, you know? Like they shouldn't but they are and it's fucking with them and they're the wrong color and -."

Daniel cleared his throat, taking the reins from her pointedly. "I think you need some more sleep," he said emphatically, raising an eyebrow as though daring her to argue, and she huffed, arching an eyebrow and folding one leg over the other, arms following suit in a decidedly petulant 'No'.

"Can't sleep," she muttered when he merely fixed her with a look. "That thing keeps looking at me."

"Looking at you?" Daniel repeated, at once on the defensive – he had never known a Mocker to be violent or untrustworthy in his studies and travels, but it had been clearly established that this creature was not like other Mockers. He didn't want Sarah feeling uncomfortable, because even though he knew she was a badass on her day off, this thing was a fucking supernatural and she probably wouldn't stand a chance if it turned on her. On either of them. "Like how?"

"Just…" She shrugged, wrapping her arms more tightly around herself and staring pointedly out ahead of them. "Like I was something weird he was studying, or something he couldn't figure out. I don't know how to explain it."

He pressed his lips together, turning to look over his shoulder where there was a small gap between the two folds of canvas, shielding the innards of the wagon from most of the cold and the ever-present breeze. The creature wasn't looking their way, but merely staring straight ahead at the opposite wall, his head bouncing occasionally with the jerky movements of the wagon, wings wrapped tight around himself and so dark that he seemed to merely blend into the shadows within, only the unnatural blue of his eyes visible at times as the wagon trundled on.

"Has he slept at all?" Daniel asked instead of anything else, fixing the flaps back to close the wagon into darkness and turning his attention back to the road – not that there was anything worth paying attention to. Even when the gelding veered off track, his girl was there to keep him in line. Honestly most nights he thought he could just let her walk and he'd get where he needed to be. There wasn't another soul on the road and Daniel doubted he would find one until at least the next town, and God knows how long it would take to get there. They thinned out the further West people went.

"I…don't think he needs to," came Sarah's hesitating reply, and Daniel frowned. No, Mockers definitely slept, of that he was certain. Slept and -. "And he hasn't even looked towards the blood cooler we got for him." Another pause. "Maybe he's just not tired. Or hungry."

Daniel gave a soft grunt of acknowledgement, clicking at the horses to keep the pace up. "Just…if you get any more weird vibes, you let me know. Can't be too careful," he said, and he heard her sigh in agreement. They fell into companionable silence again, the soft thud of hooves against hard Earth and the creaking of the wagon the only sounds to accompany them as they traveled on.

* * *

Castiel had not been outside of Florida for a very long time – not since the first generation of Mocker sanctuaries had been established and Natalie Grant had died. Castiel had not known the man very well, but they had mutual friends – or had had mutual friends. All of them were dead now, unfortunately, gone to wherever it was souls were meant to go now with the Gates of Heaven shut and Hell taking no new souls.

The Angel sighed, shifting his wings so they fell more loosely around him – the facility had been open-air for the most part and therefore freezing cold, and the comparative warmth of the wagon meant that the tight grip of his wings was largely unnecessary, even in his sparse clothing. He dug his toes into thick furs that he felt lining the bottom of the wagon, curling them tight to his feet, and sighed again. The road had always been tedious and slow to him, more-so without the speed of an engine, but it would have to do. He hadn't had the heart to fly much when he had no real destination, and even though the rumble of the wagon was a far cry from the low growl of a much more beloved machine, he found comfort in the semi-recognizable state of affairs – two Hunters in the front seat, an Angel in the back.

"Just like old times," he whispered to no one in particular, too softly to be heard by the humans whispering outside. How greatly he longed for the soothing purr of a car, the loud blare of old rock music through speakers too loud to be comfortable to human ears, an enthusiastic voice's off-key singing. His very Grace felt like it was aching, shattering apart, and this time when he clung his wings to his sides it was more for comfort than warmth.

All of them were gone now – it had been that way for a long time and would continue to be that way, he suspected, for years to come. Even though Castiel had largely fallen, he still did not age and probably never would. Even without Heaven and Hell there was enough magic left in the Earth to maintain his immortality. If only the Winchesters had had the forethought to melt an Angel-killing blade into its demon-bane twin, so that he might be gone as well.

But if he had been gone, the Mockers would likely no longer exist. He had a purpose, however small and meaningless it might seem.

But now…now, everything had changed by some weird trick of fate. How had it even happened, Castiel couldn't guess and would probably never know. Sure, Heaven didn't have a guard like Hell did, but they didn't need one. Souls weren't meant to want to leave, and even if they could most of them had no idea how to – Heaven was like an ever-changing maze and it took a special kind of determination to want to break free of that kind of idyllic bliss.

Thinking that, Castiel's mouth twisted in a grim kind of smile. Trust Dean to be the one to do that, to want to royally mess up the system they had up there once and for all.

Dean. Dean was back here, with Castiel, sitting just in the front seat and guiding the horses. It was Dean, and how badly Castiel ached to wrap his wings around the Hunter, feel the harsh cling of Dean's fingernails into his back, shiver at the harsh pant of breath Dean always gave right before a hug, right before he wrapped himself in it so tight that there was no way he was breaking free until he had to breathe again.

Dean was sitting in the front of the wagon, wearing someone's body – either that or he had been reborn – with a woman that Castiel did not know. Her soul did not pulse with familiarity like Dean's did, and so Castiel had to assume the older Winchester had come back alone. One soul, maybe, but surely two could not escape from Heaven without garnering some suspicion? Castiel would have felt that – he had not fallen so far, hewould have felt a break in Heaven's seal.

The Angel was jarred from his thoughts by a sudden lurch in the wagon's steady movements, and raised his head, tilting it to one side to better hear the Hunters – Daniel and Sarah, he would have to remember them as they are and not as they remind him of being – calling the horses to a halt. Curious, he pushed himself upright and towards the opening at the back of the wagon, crawling out onto the small step as the wagon came to a gradual halt.

"We're stopping?" he asked by way of introduction when he saw Daniel and Sarah climbing down from the seat, Sarah heading forward to unhitch the horses, and Castiel looked around. They had pulled off of the road, to one side, and the wagon was now seated amongst a gathering of old, rusted-out cars, and in the center of the group of cars was what appeared to have once been a gas station or rest stop. Now it was little more than a gutted shelter, but it was a roof and most likely where the three of them would sleep tonight.

The graveyard of cars brought back memories for Castiel, and so he tried not to look at them for too long.

"The road ahead's better to travel by daylight," Daniel said by way of explanation, tossing a smile to Castiel as he shouldered his pack, tossing it down by the front wheel of the wagon and helped Sarah unhitch the horses. "If you can set up our packs in the shelter, Cas, that'd be great."

The Angel pressed his lips together, trying his best to ignore the twinge of something that the name 'Cas' brought back to him. His fingers curled into fists tight enough to hurt his palms, and his feathers shifted restlessly. But he said nothing.

"Of course," he murmured too softly to be heard, returning to the wagon and opening the flaps up to let enough light in to peer inside. It turned out the furs that he had been warming his feet in rolled up from the floor of the wagon and within them was bedding and clothing enough for at least two nights of rest. He didn't think Daniel and Sarah intended to stay here that long, but he had to admire the innovative packing idea, as he rolled up the furs into two large rolls and carried them under his arms into the shelter.

The building was, unfortunately, even more dilapidated up-close than the sorrowful silhouette it had presented itself as, and once inside Castiel could see the full extent of the damage done to it – the roof had collapsed in on itself, and one half of the floor was completely flooded and damp had seeped into the walls. Castiel didn't even want to think about what kind of harmful mold could have grown there over the years, but it was enough to make him turn on his heel and walk right back outside with the packs.

Sarah saw him first, and frowned. "What's up?" she asked, as she was finished planting a stake in the solid ground with a grunt of effort, tying the horses to it with feed bags attached to their noses for them to eat, happily munching away. Castiel sighed, setting the packs back down in the back of the wagon.

"The innards of that building are not suitable for any living thing for five minutes, let alone a night," he informed them plainly, crossing his arms over his chest and resting his weight against the wagon. "You'd be better off sleeping in here. I can keep watch."

Daniel frowned, brows drawing together and lips turned down at the corners as he looked Castiel over, then his eyes flashed to the shelter, and back to the Angel. Castiel couldn't hold his gaze for long, and at the same time wanted to hold it forever. Those eyes were so damn familiar. "Alright," Daniel said after a long moment, with a one-shouldered shrug that had Castiel looking away. "But you need to sleep too. There's plenty of room for the three of us."

Castiel stifled a small smile when Daniel's – Dean's – soul pulsed with worry and concern; he could almost hear Dean's voice again, now, whispering softly to him in the nighttime when the Angel's own damning helplessness would get to be too much; It's okay, Cas. You can't be everywhere at once. You can't save everyone.

And while it was true – the wagon could comfortably sleep three of them – Castiel's eyes darted to Sarah, who was still busy unhooking most of the unnecessary harnesses from the horses so that they would be able to rest comfortably in the night, and the Angel swallowed. "I…" He didn't want to encroach on Daniel and Sarah – yes, they had bought him and that meant close quarters and a constant traveling companion, but humans often didn't grasp the enormity of what a third person could mean to their intimate lives. If Daniel and Sarah were together – and it ached in his Grace to think of Dean embracing anyone but him – then it was not Castiel's place to get in the way of that.

And if they were, he certainly didn't want to see it. Couldn't stand the thought of seeing them kiss or hug or hold each other while his Grace would burn with jealousy and ire and that damned helplessness again. It had been a while since Castiel had felt so stuck, and he hated it.

He shifted his wings, and instead of saying anything like that, he hid his true feelings; "I don't believe you would be comfortable with me," he said, which was a truth in of itself – he had been able to smell the tenseness and anxiety rolling off of Sarah when they had shared close quarters on the journey, and however his feelings may be messed up he didn't want to cause a human such emotional distress when it was avoidable by simply removing himself from the situation. He hadn't fought for that. "And I will not require sleep tonight." Another truth, but he had to hide that part too, because he was not a Mocker, and Mockers required sleep. If Daniel and Sarah discovered his true nature, he didn't know how they would react and he loathed the feeling of not knowing.

Daniel's eyes followed his gaze. Sarah had finally stopped untacking the horses and was rejoining them with a tired huff and a toss of her hair, and Daniel smiled at her, reaching out to hook an arm around her shoulders and pull her close to his body. How badly Castiel wanted to look away, then, biting his lip and dipping his eyes down so that he wouldn't have to see, because it hurt.

Dean was his. But Daniel was obviously hers.

It was so unfair.

"C'mon, Cas, join us. You'll freeze out here."

There it was again – that damned moniker that had once felt like home and love and safety to the Angel. Unbidden his fingers curled again by his sides and he hung his head; now, knowing that Dean could not be his, at least not as they were now, it made him lose the small hope he had clung to before – "Don't call me that," he growled, bit out too harshly, more harshly than he'd meant to. It took the Hunters by surprise, he could tell when he raised his eyes to them again, saw the barely reined in trepidation and the slight tensing of Daniel's shoulders. "Just…don't," he murmured again, softer this time, repentant, and turned away. "I will keep watch."

He spread his wings out, more for show than anything else, effectively finalizing the conversation, and used them to propel him upwards as he jumped onto one of the stacks of cars – the things too familiar that creaked under his weight as though greeting him from a long journey. How far were they from Bobby's old junkyard, anyway? Was this it, and did he simply not recognize it anymore?

From his vantage point he could see for a long while, and was confident he would be able to keep guard over his Hunters' sleep as they rested.

"Just like old times," he muttered to himself, letting his wings fall on either side of him, and settled down to watch the stars and try not to think too hard about anything in particular.


	3. The Lamb

Sarah and Daniel watched the Mocker push off, his black wings making him almost disappear against the bleak, dark night, and Sarah shivered again, feeling the otherworldliness of the creature raising hair on her arms and the back of her neck.

"He's…definitely not like other Mockers," she noted, pulling away from Daniel and heading towards the wagon – Daniel might be content to argue with the creature until the sun rose again, but it was fucking freezing and she wasn't made of blubber. When she looked back, Daniel was still staring after Castiel, brows pulled together and worrying his lower lip like he did when he was trying to figure something out. "Danny? You coming?"

That pulled him out of his thoughts, and he smiled sheepishly, shoulders hunching down as he walked over to join her and climbed into the wagon, pulling the canvas closed behind them. "He's a lot older than they usually sell them," he said in an attempt to explain Castiel's strange behavior – more to himself than to her, though, as he spoke as though he was merely thinking aloud. "Apparently most of them are sold at birth or before. Maybe he had time to be set in certain ways before we got him."

Sarah 'hmm'ed gently in agreement, pulling one of her sweaters over her head so she was left in a tank top and a lightweight shirt over that, pulling one of the furs tightly around her body. "Or maybe he was owned before," she suggested, settling down with one arm folded under her head, "and it went badly. I hear that can happen, too."

Daniel swallowed, settling down after pulling off his jacket and boots as well, joining her under his own fur – how she could sleep in shoes, he'd never know, but she did. Weirdo. "Must've been awful," he whispered – it was quiet in the wagon, and he felt like if he spoke too loudly, then Castiel would hear him, and he felt bad, talking about the guy when he wasn't around. Always felt like they could hear anyway and why would you say something to one person when you can't say it to another? "I remember reading they can bond to their Hunters or whatever. Never read what happens when one of them dies."

"Poor soul," Sarah said, voice low with sympathy and care, and Daniel smiled – even to something that weirded her out, Sarah was always the more compassionate one. "You have to make him sleep in here tomorrow, okay? I don't care what he says. Tie him down if you have to."

Daniel laughed. "I get the feeling that's harder than it sounds," he said, pressing his lips together and quirking an eyebrow, though in the darkness she would have a hard time seeing it.

"If anyone could find a way, it'd be you," came Sarah's reply, and a creak that meant she was shifting in place. Daniel took that to mean their heart-to-heart was over, and he sighed, closing his eyes and settling down to rest. His dreams that night were filled with Hunts and blood, as they were most of the time, but there was also this feeling of being watched, chased after, guarded, and a voice calling a name he didn't recognize.

Dean.

* * *

Dawn broke bright and early, and Daniel climbed out of the wagon to find Castiel on the same stack of cars, seemingly having not moved the entire night. His bare toes were curled under the fender of an old skeleton of a car, his wings flared out behind him steadily as the light breeze was making the stack he was sitting on creak disconcertingly frequently, and Daniel suspected that it was only the Angel's balance keeping the pile from teetering over.

The creature turned his head towards Daniel when he approached, eyes bright and focused and not at all tired like Daniel would have expected after a night with no sleep. "If you were tired, you could have woken one of us up. We're used to taking shifts," he said. In truth, it had been a while since he'd slept that well, or for that long. Maybe it was the fact that he knew there was a pair of faithful eyes watching out for him, but his dreams had been untroubled and quiet, even with the subject they'd revolved around.

He'd never found dreaming of Hunting to be particularly pleasant, but last night they had felt familiar. Routine. Like home.

Castiel blinked, once, mouth quirking up at the corners. "You needed rest," he said softly, pushing himself to his feet and jumping down to land on the ground and, almost on cue, the stack of cars creaked alarmingly, leaning in Daniel and the wagon's direction, and Castiel looked up to the stack – it wasn't very high, but if it landed on them it would cause a great deal of damage. Without thinking about it, he waved his hand and sent the stack leaning in the other direction, the cars crashing against the solid ground with a creaking groan loud enough to startle the horses and probably wake up anyone within a mile radius.

"Jesus shit!" came Sarah's startled voice, as she hurried out of the wagon to see what the holy Hell that had been. "What the ever-loving crap was that?" She stopped, then, seeing the toppled pile of cars, and her eyes flashed accusingly to Daniel.

"It wasn't me!" the Hunter argued, holding his hands up in defense. "The stack was falling and Cas-tiel," the Angel winced, hearing his name so awkwardly said, like Daniel was trying hard not to shorten it to 'Cas', "made it fall the other way. I'd be mince if it weren't for him."

"I made it fall in the first place," the Angel murmured when Sarah was merely silent. "It was unstable, but as soon as I landed on it I knew I wouldn't be able to get off without it falling. So I stayed."

Another pause. "…All night?" Sarah asked disbelievingly, raising a brow, to which Castiel merely nodded, brows drawing together in confusion. Of course he had stayed all night, why would he move just so that he could be more comfortable when it meant either waking his Hunters or disturbing their sleep some other way, like letting the stack fall on them? "Jesus, Castiel, you could have said something!"

Castiel's frown deepened – her concern was unnecessary and unfounded, and he couldn't understand why she seemed so concerned that he gets a good night's sleep when she couldn't even be in the same wagon with him without being uncomfortable. It had been a long time since any human had been uncomfortable around Castiel.

"I…apologize?" he hazarded, wings fanning the air in a placating gesture that he realized too late she wouldn't understand. "If it puts you at ease I will try to inform you of my discomfort in the future. But you needn't worry, I assure you. One night won't kill me."

'One night won't kill me.' By the Father, but it would. That was the problem with humans – they had so little time, and yet carelessly threw what little they had away. That is what Dean had done; denied himself medicine and treatment because it wouldn't look good for the leader of the new world to be in hospital for his dying days. He'd stayed in the house for days on end until something would pull him out, rest where he could between meetings and migrations and anything else that demanded his attention. After Sam had gone, he just hadn't had the energy. That's what happened when human souls were so closely bonded.

That had been what happened to Castiel. Might have killed him if he had a soul.

But he didn't. His own damning existence had exiled him here.

Sarah's next words pulled him out of his dive into the past; "Regardless, tomorrow night you're sleeping in the wagon, with us. Can't have you freezing out here. It's ridiculous." And with that, she turned on her heel and marched back to the horses, unhooking them from the stake in the ground and leading them back to the wagon to be reattached and harnessed.

Castiel's mouth twisted a little, feathers bristling in discomfort. He didn't want to lay next to the man who housed Dean's soul, in such close quarters, being unable to do anything more than be next to him and look at the back of his head as he slept. Dean hadn't liked it when Castiel would do that – just watch him while he slept. It made him uncomfortable, and Castiel suspected that that kind of thing was soul-deep and not only a product of Dean's personality.

And to lay so near, being unable to touch him, to hold him, to run his fingers through Dean's hair and taste the inside of his mouth and feel his warm breath, panting, against his neck…no. No, Castiel used to be strong, and patient, and could hold himself back, but a lot of things died when Dean did and the Angel knew he would not be able to control himself to have the man he had known as his mate and his love so near and yet untouchable. Couldn't face that. Maybe before, but not now. Not after so long.

His nails dug into his forearms and he pinned his wings tightly to his back in an attempt to hide them. "Have I upset her?" he asked instead of any of the things he wanted to say, tilting his head towards Sarah when Daniel looked to him in question.

"Hmm? Oh," the man said, smiling a little sheepishly, an amused twist to his mouth as she scratched the back of his head. "Nah, Cas-tiel. She's just one of those people who tries to save everyone."

You can't save everyone.

Castiel pressed his lips together, looking down from the sincerity and affection burning bright in Daniel's eyes when he spoke of his…whatever they were to each other. Lover? Girlfriend? Companion? He didn't even know, and he didn't want to know – the longer he could fool himself into thinking that Dean was not completely lost to him, the better.

And Dean's soul shone so brightly with love when Daniel looked at her. It ached Castiel's eyes to see.

The two men stood in uncomfortable silence, until Castiel's shoulders started to ache from having his wings drawn in so tightly in such an uncomfortable position.

"How far away is the Hunt?" he asked, for lack of anything else to say. "The rugaru. How far away is it?"

Daniel shrugged one shoulder. "Another couple of days, maybe a week. And it's rugarus. We have reason to believe there's more than one of them. Maybe a whole pack."

Castiel frowned, cocking his head to one side. "Rugarus are solitary," he said firmly, because he knew it to be true – while it was a case that they mostly developed families before the need for meat consumed them and they became monsters, once that primal urge overtook them they commonly broke off and fled their families, leaving their mates and cursed offspring behind. "There have been mated pairs found, yes, but never more than two. Definitely no more – there would be too much competition for food."

"Well, be that as it may," Daniel replied with another shrug, "there have been far too many killings anyway."

"If there are that many, a week is too long to wait," Castiel urged, a tight feeling winding in his gut at the thought of the potential death toll that could be racked up with a week of enough dead to rival a pack of rugarus – those things hunted incessantly and were rarely full for long. "Perhaps it would be better for you and Sarah to unhitch the horses. You can travel faster, and I can carry anything you might need from day-to-day, if we hide the wagon and you can use shelters you find on the road."

"That…" Daniel trailed off, this look coming to his face like when he had seen Castiel for the first time; appraising, like he couldn't quite figure out what he was looking at; intrigued. "There's a lot to carry in the wagon," he hedged.

"What's going on?" Sarah asked, coming back from finishing the harnesses with a tired huff, tucking her hair back behind her ears.

"Castiel thinks we should ditch the wagon, get there faster," Daniel said, turning to her so he could see her reaction. She paused, raising an eyebrow in the Angel's direction. "It'll take us up to a week to get there and he's worried that the numbers will get too high."

"We're the closest they got," she argued, frowning a little.

"Exactly," Castiel said. "And if we are the closest then we should get there as quickly as possible. That's what Hunters do."

"Well, since you're such an expert," she retorted sarcastically, and while Castiel's mouth twisted and his feathers bristled in anger at her tone, he said nothing. Dean wouldn't have even questioned it – even back before, when Castiel's flight was fast and he could just 'zap' the Winchesters anywhere they wanted to be, Dean would have dealt with that and allowed himself to be transported if it meant getting to the Hunt and saving innocent people just in time. "Have you even Hunted before? You can't just go in guns blazin' – how can we be prepared without the wagon? It has all our gear and supplies!"

Dean wouldn't care. Dean would have gone in. Dean -. "Bring your guns, and oil and matches," Castiel bit out, digging his nails tight into the palms of his hands to keep his tired and burning Grace in check. "That's all you need. I can carry the rest."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "You can carry it all? Christ, you'll run yourself into the ground doing that," she noted, crossing her arms over her chest and resting her weight on one leg – every inch of her shouted 'I doubt you could', and Castiel had been doubted before, but never soblatantly, especially since the leadership of the Winchesters and his subsequent efforts to rescue humanity from their frozen world.

"I would not have suggested it if I couldn't handle it," Castiel bit out, speaking slowly; "I believe you think me to be more fragile than I am. I will not break under a little heavy lifting."

"Hmm," Sarah huffed, "and what if we get caught on the road and can't find shelter?"

The Angel blew out a long breath. "I can build you one," he said. "Do you think I would leave you out here to freeze?"

She didn't say anything in reply to that, merely pressed her lips together and turned away. "Fine," she muttered, "I guess I'll start packing some shit, then." Daniel watched her go, a guilty look in his eyes when he turned back to look at Castiel.

"She's, ah…" He trailed off, unable to come up with a word to describe her outburst. "She doesn't like being out in the open, unprotected."

"You are not unprotected," Castiel countered. "You have me."

At that, Daniel smiled, one corner of his mouth quirking up as he huffed a small laugh. "Yeah, that's true," he agreed, walking towards the back of the wagon, presumably to begin packing while Sarah untacked the horses, "but you need to sleep, too. We'll have to be more careful the farther west we go, and I won't have you fadin' out on me."

Castiel couldn't help but smile, feeling warm that Dean – Daniel, he had to remind himself – would feel so concerned about his well-being. Dean had, too, right up until the day he died. "I assure you, Daniel," he murmured, "I will be fine."

"I don't need you burning out, Castiel," Daniel continued, as though he didn't hear him, pulling the two halves of the canvas apart and hooking one edge on a hook on the corner of the wagon, to keep it open as he crawled inside. "You get tired, you let me know. Our horses are good, they can keep running, but we only have one Mocker."

With that, he stepped inside, and Castiel didn't follow. Not yet. He looked down, sighing heavily, his fingers clenching and pressing against the wooden step of the wagon. A Mocker. They would think he was a Mocker, of course – yet one more thing that marked him as different, as Other, as something that separated their two worlds. Angels no more existed for Daniel than they had for Dean before he and Castiel had met.

And of course – now that he knew they thought of him as a Mocker, their concern made sense. He was the one not making sense; he didn't need to eat, didn't need to sleep, didn't need to stay warm. He walked on bare feet and sat for hours at night thinking about nothing for as long as possible and could conjure things out of thin air and suggested running themselves ragged to catch a Hunt.

Things that Dean wouldn't have blinked at, but to them were as strange and foreign as he was.

"Just like old times," he whispered to himself, standing straight as he saw Sarah approaching.

"What are you muttering about?" she asked, circling around him and pushing herself up into the wagon.

"Nothing important," Castiel replied, though he suspected she didn't really care around his answer either way.

"Well, get your ass in gear, Castiel. We're losin' daylight and the fewer nights I have to spend out in the cold, the better. We're leaving the wagon here," she continued, turning her attention to Daniel to inform him. "It's the best place I know of for miles, people probably won't spare it a second glance, so when you're ready, help me push it into the middle of all this junk."

"How much can you carry, Castiel?" Daniel asked, poking his head out of the back of the wagon and pushing out one of the furs that rolled into a sleeping pack for the Hunters, along with a heavy-looking duffle-like bag next to it, and Castiel tilted his head to one side, trying to remember the last time he had tried to lift anything heavier than an infant Mocker.

"I'll let you know when you have given me everything," he answered instead of trying to give them a false estimate. He had carried the weight of two grown men once, and that had seemed light to him, but it had been a long time, he was older, theoretically stronger, but his wings were not. They were weak with disuse and unlikely to be able to carry him far with too much weight.

Sarah huffed softly again. "You seem awfully confident," she noted, but her voice held no judgment – just a little bit of disbelief, and of course she wouldn't believe him. Mockers weren't…well, they were strong, and they were smart, but they didn't have much of a reputation with humans for being overly confident or self-assured. Dependent, that's what they were. He'd probably thrown her for one hell of a loop.

He shook his head. "Confidence gets people killed. I am merely honest," he said, smiling a little at Daniel's surprised laugh.

"An honest one. That's new," Sarah grumbled under her breath before climbing into the wagon, forcing Daniel to step outside and the man sat himself down on the wagon step, waiting for her to pack the supplies she wouldn't be able to carry on her horse, and would have to rely on Castiel to provide.

"Seriously, though, man, if you get tired and you need to rest, let me know alright? Won't do no good having your lights burned out."

The Angel's smile was tight when he nodded, pressing his lips together when Daniel merely gave a satisfied nod, and considered the matter closed. "Is this everything you need me to carry?" he asked in an attempt to change the conversation topic, gesturing to the thick roll and duffle bag pressed against Daniel's thigh.

"Yeah," the Hunter replied, smacking a hand down onto it. "If you can. The rest can go on the horses or be left behind. Shouldn't need much for a rugaru, luckily – flammable bastards."

"I hope there is not more than one," Castiel said quietly but firmly – one had been difficult enough for Sam and Dean to take out, he shuddered to think of the damage two or more could cause. "Surely so many would have drawn the attention of other Hunters? How is it that a week's journey is the closest there is?"

Daniel fixed him with an odd look, then, tilting his head to one side, eyes dark with thought. When he spoke, it was slowly, as though being very careful in the words he chose; "How long were you in that facility, Castiel?"

And God, hearing his full name come out of such a familiar face was as awful as it was odd – he'd forgotten what his full name sounded like coming out of a man who looked so much like the one sitting in front of him now. It was scary, it was cruel, just how little could have changed to a human in so long.

Castiel didn't have time to answer, though, as Sarah chose that moment to push out her own roll and back for Castiel to carry, and it clinked loudly when settled. Castiel suspected it was guns, and knives, and every other kind of weapon other than what they needed – she looked like the 'Always Prepared' kind of girl, and Castiel could appreciate that about her. It carefully took both of the duffle bags, threading one of his wings through the first and sling it over his shoulder, then the other so they settled in an 'X' across his back. They were heavy, but not unbearably so, and he tested them to see if he would be able to stretch his wings far enough to fly. It was tight, and uncomfortable, but he managed it. The rolls he would have to carry in his hands and it would mess up his balance, but as long as they weighed vaguely the same, the Angel knew he'd be alright with it.

"All good?" Daniel asked, his eyes bright and focused on Castiel, and the Angel nodded, biting his lip and dipping his head away from the scrutiny. "Alright. Sarah, help me unhook the horses. Let's set off as soon as possible."

And they did, pulling out from the top of the wagon some very old and worn-looking saddles, barely more than pieces of cloth with a strip of leather to wrap around the horses, and instead of bridles Daniel and Sarah merely shortened the lead reins and tied the excess loosely around the horses' shoulders. It was crude but it would do the job and hurt the humans more than the animals, which Castiel assumed was the point – the beast could run on until it was too tired and then the humans could rest at night.

"You good?" Daniel asked once they had pushed the wagon into the center of the junkyard and mounted the horses – Sarah on the gelding and Daniel on the mare. Sitting there on the giant black horse, Castiel felt small looking up at him, and felt a familiar ache in the center of his chest; he wondered if Daniel called her 'Baby' too.

Instead he smiled. "Yes, Daniel, I'll be okay."

"Alright, um…I guess we'll just stop at sunset for now, see how we're feeling. You'll be able to keep up okay?" Castiel nodded again. "Let us know if -."

"God's sake, Danny, he said he'll be fine. And 'The Honest One' will let us know if his wings start droopin', alright? Stop mothering him," Sarah griped, kicking her heels into her horse and sending him off at a canter. Daniel smiled apologetically and waited for Castiel to step back before following behind. Castiel watched them go for a second, measuring the strides of the horses; at their pace they'd probably make it about sixty miles before the sun set. If they kept it up.

Castiel bent down, wings flaring out to compensate for the extra weight, and hefted the pack rolls. They weren't too heavy, but they were large and cumbersome and he knew he would have to rest a while every now and again to compensate for the strain on his wings.

He pressed his lips together and pushed up from the ground. He couldn't help but smile at the way his wings caught the air and lifted him up higher and higher – the facility had been a giant dome of cage, so even if there was a good wing, a Mocker couldn't go far. It had depressed him, but the Mockers had seemed happy enough so he never complained. Of course he never complained; this is what he had signed up for.

* * *

When they stopped for the night, Castiel's entire body ached in ways he had forgotten it could. His wings could barely fold to pull off the duffle bags he'd been carrying on his back, and his back was sore from having the guns in Sarah's pack pressing against his spine. His arms were stiff and he worked his cold fingers for a moment to flex them out, loosen the joints.

Sarah and Daniel didn't look much better – he could see them both wince when they dismounted, thighs and calves sore from gripping their horses' flanks, fingers stiff and cold from clutching the reins. Steam rose gently off the horses' backs and their legs shook with exhaustion, heads hanging low and they munched eagerly on the grass growing around them, flanks still heaving as they worked to calm their bodies down. Their flanks were soaked with sweat and Castiel hoped that Daniel and Sarah had packed blankets for them, otherwise they would likely freeze in the night.

There was very little shelter in the place they had found when the sun set, the temperature of the air dropping noticeably by a couple of degrees. Castiel could see Sarah shivering, her hands digging deep into the pockets of her coat and standing close to Daniel to keep warm. His wings flexed, sweat making his fingers stick together uncomfortably, and he knew that the flight had left him far too tired to conjure an adequate shelter for them. They would have to find somewhere out of the wind, and he could use his wings and the warmth of the horses to survive the night.

He cast his eyes around. The ground was relatively flat, with small rises on either side of the road that had once been a highway, he suspected. The tarmac had long been eroded away or torn up to build new houses after the Ice Age, and there was very little to show it had even been a road at all – merely extra flatness amongst the flat ground. He was confident that he would be able to shape the earth into a small cove, and that would be enough for now.

"Follow me," he said, walking across the highway to the other side, and climbing over the small ridge. It stood at about waist height, and he carefully visualized a small cove dug into the side of the rise, dragging earth from the middle to rise up for shelter from the rain, with sides for protection from the wind. By the time Daniel and Sarah joined him with the horses and the bags, there was a smoothed out hollow in the ground large enough to comfortably sleep two people. When Daniel threw Castiel a look and cautiously stepped inside, the Angel spared some of his tired Grace to heat the inside air as well to a pleasant temperature, as though they were inside of a heated house.

He wondered, briefly, if either of them even knew what that felt like.

"How the hell did you do that?" Sarah asked, gesturing to the cove and eyeing it warily. She had a tight grip of the horses' reins and was standing far enough back from the alcove that there was no way in hell she could accidentally touch it. Her eyes were wide and scared, watching Daniel move around inside, checking the place out. "That wasn't there before, was it?"

Castiel pressed his lips together, able to feel both Daniel and Sarah's eyes on him. "No," he said, "but did I not say I would provide you shelter?"

"But that's…that fuckin' magic!" Sarah replied, her voice rising higher in her confusion. "Mockers can't do that. They can't do that."

"…Can they?" Daniel asked, stepping back out of the alcove, and Castiel moved away to make room for him, licking his lips as he tried to think of something to say. Should he lie? No – he could never lie to Dean. Ever. He would rather die first, again, as many times as necessary.

He hesitated, wings fanning the air behind him nervously, though they were sore and cold, and he swallowed. "No," he said, looking down. "No, they can't. Not so far as I am aware."

It was then that Daniel took a step back, immediately on the defensive, and Castiel's very Grace ached with the flat look that overcame his face. "Then what are you?" he asked, and if Castiel's hadn't been watching his eyes he wouldn't have seen the brief flash towards the bag of weapons. And it hurt. It hurt to be considered anything other than a friend, and brother, a…

"What. Are. You?" Sarah bit out when Castiel remained silent.

Unbidden, his feathers bristled up along the arches in his wings at her threatening tone, his fingers flexing very slightly in an effort to control his Grace. It had been a long time since someone had hated him so much, so obviously – such anger shining in human eyes.

"I'm a…" He paused, swallowed, and took a deep breath. This used to come so easily to him, but he knew how they would react, and kept his head down, unwilling to see the disbelief on their faces when they would learn the truth; learn just how far he must have fallen. "I am an Angel of the Lord."

It sounded so flat, coming out of his mouth now. Where had God gone? That was it – he was gone. All of the Angels were, long before these humans, these Hunters, these children had ever been born – before their parents and grandparents. These children probably didn't even understand what a God was anymore. All they knew was monsters.

"Angels?" Daniel asked, sounding suspicious and just a little scared. "Get outta here. There's no such thing."

There's no such thing. Why would an Angel rescue me from Hell?

Castiel swallowed, feeling a tight sensation building up in the back of his throat, like he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. When he turned his gaze deeper, Dean's soul pulsed sullenly inside of Daniel's body – the soul was tired, drained, was not singing with joy and familiarity. It looked like it was dying. God, no.

"I…" Castiel wanted to look anywhere but at the two Hunters; could not stand to see the look of fear and anger on their faces. "When the world ended, there were many of us," he said. "Trapped here, or that had gone back. With the Gates of Heaven shut, there was nowhere for me to go. So I stayed."

"An Angel." That was Sarah, her eyes wide, mouth open in shock. She was standing very close to Daniel, and had stepped in front of him, almost like a shield, and it just made Castiel's Grace ache more to think that he had allowed that, that he felt he needed that. Why, why? "My mom used to tell me about Angels. They're not real. Nothing like that is real anymore."

Instead of saying anything, Castiel merely held his arms out to his sides, wings matching in an example, like an offering to her senses to prove them wrong. Daniel bit his lip, looking at Castiel as though seeing with new eyes, like he'd changed something about him and the man couldn't quite figure out what.

"His wings aren't colored like Mockers' are," he whispered to Sarah quietly. "He doesn't sleep. Or eat."

"I am an Angel," Castiel repeated, folding his wings again and letting his arms hang loosely by his sides. "And you are now under my protection. You need not fear me. Now," he gestured to his shelter, "sleep. Rest. It'll get colder soon."

"Why?" Sarah asked, not moving, and not letting Daniel move either, her arm reaching out to stop the man from obeying Castiel and stepping back into the cove. "Why us? What are you doing here?"

The Angel tilted his head to one side, frowning a little. "You bought me," he said plainly, like the answer should have been obvious, and it should have – they're the ones who'd done it, after all. "You have a Hunt, you needed me. Here I am."

"But why?" Sarah asked again, clearly frustrated with the lack of answers.

Before Castiel could say anything in reply, Daniel sighed and, with a roll of his eyes, pushed her restricting arm away from him. "C'mon, Sarah, let's get to sleep. I don't know 'bout you but my legs are fuckin' dying here. Come on," he said, stepping down into the alcove, holding out his hand for her to follow. "It's really warm in here, too. Nice and comfy."

Her eyes were dark with distrust still, and she doesn't move. Daniel rolled his eyes again. "Cas, are you going to maim, stab, shoot, suffocate or in any other way kill us tonight?" he asked, looking back towards the Angel with barely disguised amusement on his face.

Castiel's mouth twisted as well in a smile. "No, definitely not," he replied, playing along.

"There, see?" Daniel said, grinning back at the woman. "And he's 'The Honest One', remember? Now let's get the fuck to sleep."

Castiel turned away from the humans then, leaving them to settle down for the night despite Sarah's continuing process, and instead saw to the horses, conjuring more grass and some water for them as well, and blankets since Sarah had yet to put them on the animals. The mare seemed to give a whicker of thanks when he did so, ears forward, and she pressed her muzzle against Castiel's hand once before going back to graze. The Angel's wings fluttered happily, his breath misting in the night, and he was content. There were so many stars out, but Castiel couldn't see them, because within that alcove Dean's soul was shining brightly enough to render those stars invisible.

* * *

The second day was worse in travel than the first – Castiel's back and wings, already sore from carrying such a weight after so long being mostly unused, twinged at every pull and he tried to glide for most of the way, but the air currents were random and fleeting and it was hard to maintain any altitude without effort. He was sweating by the time he landed with his Hunters, as they had stopped for food and he didn't want to fly too far ahead of them should they need his help.

"Doin' alright there, Cas?" Daniel asked with a raised eyebrow, and the Angel nodded his head once. After the slip-up of last night, Castiel hadn't had the heart to correct him again, and not with the soul inside of him shining so brightly. Castiel had to wonder if it had been his rejection before that had dulled Dean's soul so much. He couldn't bear to do that again. "You look exhausted."

"I assure you, Daniel, I am fine," he replied with a wave of his hand, forcing a tired smile to his face. "I will have time to rest tonight. The Hunt is more important."

Sarah gave an unimpressed huff at that, muttering something under her breath, but Castiel didn't hear her. No, his attention had been caught by something else – something loud, jarring, the feeling felt like it had clawed its way into his very bones. Something that felt wrong, haunting, like the scream of a dying ghost.

He shuddered with it, his wings flexing, and stood to try and find the source. But his weak, human eyes could see nothing, nothing but the bleak brown-green landscape around them, the road stretching ever-onward in front of them and behind.

"Something wrong?" Daniel's voice felt distant, discordant with the high-pitched ringing in Castiel's ears, as though something was trying to drill through his skull; the screech of an owl or a dying Angel. He flinched at the sound.

"I…" And just like that, it was gone again, as though it had never been, but it made Castiel's fingers shake as he pressed them to his temple, tried to massage away the feeling of his brain pushing itself out of his ears. "I don't know what that was."

"Are you okay?" Concerned, then, Daniel's voice getting closer, a hand on his shoulder squeezing tight and it was only then that Castiel realized he had fallen to his knees, drawn his wings in tight to his body to try and shield himself from the feeling, the wrongness. "What happened?"

What had happened? Castiel didn't know – he looked up into Daniel's eyes, those eyes that were so green and familiar and he felt just as lost as the last time he had looked into them, when they had blinked closed for the last time and Castiel had tried to follow to find the Gates of Heaven sealed shut and had tried to rip out his own Grace so that he didn't have to feel anymore. "I don't know," he replied honestly, unable to tear his gaze away, and it seemed like Daniel wasn't going to look away any time soon either. "I felt like…like something was trying to rip my Grace apart."

The Hunter's brows furrowed in confusion – Dean would have known. Would have known what he was talking about, and pressed his hand to Castiel's chest as though to feel a heartbeat, would have allowed the Angel to bury his face in the crook of the Hunter's shoulder, lined with sweat and blood and ash. But Castiel could do nothing and Daniel didn't do anything.

The stillness didn't last long – not even a moment later Castiel was doubling over, crying out in pain and pressing a hand against his chest as that sensation hit him like a bullet between the shoulders. It was pure wrongness, like seeing the full extent of Hell's hoard when he had gazed upon them surrounding the burning soul of the Righteous Man. It was the screams of dying Angels when he had plunged his blade into their hearts, felt their Graces claw at him and call him a traitor.

"Cas? Cas!" He could hear the Hunters calling his name, but could not for his very being answer them; his lips felt like they had been sewn shut, jaws clenched and locked tight and he couldn't speak, could barely twitch his tired and sore wings to even acknowledge them.

Then, balm. A warm, soothing palm smoothed out along the back of his neck, strong and callused fingers gripping gently and it felt as though someone had cut the nerves from Castiel's head to the rest of his body – his wings still twitched in pain, but his head had cleared, finally, allowed him to blink open eyes darkened with pain and gasp in a desperate breath and try and figure out what the actual Hell was happening to his body.

Was he finally dying?

"Castiel." The fingers squeezed, their grip turned harsh and demanding and, gasping, Castiel forced himself to raise his eyes, look upon the concerned and helpless gaze of his Hunter. Daniel's voice had lowered in his fear, too familiar, too achingly familiar. "Cas, are you okay?"

The soul was pulsing brightly underneath Daniel's skin, pressing right up against the barriers of his flesh. If Castiel wanted, he could reach forward and tug at it, force the soul to part from this unnecessary body, drink him into Castiel's own, keep Dean with him forever. His very Grace pulsed with selfish, frightened need – the need to survive, to fight, to carry on. He needed to get a message, needed to find help, Salvation. Needed -.

Help me.

"Help me," Castiel's mouth whispered, but it was not his voice; this voice was weak, dredging up enough strength to barely hold off Death himself, and felt cold in Castiel's throat, constricting like the grip of Lucifer's palm into a human heart. "Help me. Please."

His fingers grabbed, desperate as only the dying can, nails digging into Daniel's coat sleeves and curling around the back of his neck, their foreheads bumping together hard enough to make Daniel wince. His own eyes were bright, wide – he could sense the otherness in Castiel now, in the glow of his eyes and the echo in his voice, in the dominant and powerful arch of his wings.

"How?" he whispered, was aware of Sarah's presence nearby, her instincts demanding she close her cold fingers around the handle of a gun, in case Castiel attacked – or whatever was possessing the Angel attacked. She would likely never be relaxed around him. "I hear you," he said, "I'm here."

Relief, then, so strong that Castiel shook from it; made him cling tighter to Daniel's warmth, fighting off the clutches of the darkness pressing in on him from all sides – he felt like he was drowning. Death wasn't meant to feel like this; he knew, he'd done it before. "Help me," he whispered again, could do no more than beg pitifully – whatever was happening, whatever had wormed its way into his brain and taken over his voice, it was tired, and it was scared. So very scared like a lost child. His fingers clutched deeper, tight enough that it was making Daniel wince, the Hunter's lips pressed tight together in pain.

Stop, he urged the thing, trying so desperately to gentle his touch on him. We're here. We will find you. Stop.

Abruptly, as though someone had hauled him out of the freezing water of Death, Castiel was back, gasping heavily, and he collapsed against Daniel's body, making the Hunter lose his balance and fall back onto his heels, the Angel sprawled on top of him. Castiel was quick to push himself upright, not wanting to hurt the man, but was unable to go much further than that – sickness had dug itself deep into his belly, making him feel like he was staring at a pool of blood and intestines; he felt a foreign and very sudden urge to vomit, and barely held himself back.

"What the fuck was that?" Sarah demanded, running over to Daniel and hauling him to his feet, as they both stared at the winded and collapsed Angel. Castiel was still clutching at his chest, a glow to his skin that almost made him look sickly in the eternal grey-dawn, sweat sticking the fine wisps of hair at the back of his neck to his skin. His wings were shaking. "Castiel? Danny? Care to clue me in?"

Castiel had no voice to answer her; the sensation, the presence was gone, but with its departure something even more violent and sickening had risen up; he needed to fly, there was a tug on his Grace that pure will could not let him ignore – he had to find whatever had made that distress call, before it was too late. Before that voice was lost.

He raised his head, felt his very joints ache with fatigue, lips pressed together tightly, and when he pushed himself to his feet there was hesitance in every movement; fear, that if he moved too fast or in the wrong way, the weak human vessel he wore would crumble into dust under the force of it. "I…"

"Someone needs our help," Daniel murmured before Castiel could say anything, and the Angel fought a smile, knowing in Daniel's voice that he had already made up his mind to go search it out.

Dean's soul pulsed happily when the Angel smiled.

"Or something," Sarah hissed, tugging on Daniel's sleeve. "You're not serious, right? This thing – whatever the fuck just happened – managed to strike down a fucking Angel of the Lord. And we have almost none of our gear. We're not prepared for this."

Daniel blinked at her, brows furrowing in anger. "You're kidding, right?" he demanded, pulling his arm away from her and taking a step towards the kneeling Angel, as though shielding him from Sarah's glare with his own body, and Castiel's wings curled forward on instinct, an arch brushing against the back of Daniel's calf. "Look, I don't think this thing wants to hurt us. It asked for our help."

"We know plenty of things that lure their victims in that way, Danny – fuck! It could be anything!" Sarah bit back, fire lighting her eyes. There was so much ire and frustration in them, Castiel wondered what she must be doing with it all.

"I don't care!" Daniel replied, with a twist to his mouth that Castiel recognized, along with the determined gleam in his eye. "The thing asked for my help, Sarah – this is what we do, isn't it? So saddle up. Cas, do you think you can find it?"

A hand locked itself around Castiel's arm, pulling the unsteady Angel to his feet and instincts that were more in control that his own brain was made his wings flare out, catch the air to keep him upright even when his legs still felt like they were going to buckle. "I…think so," he hazarded, rubbing the sore spot just below his sternum where it felt like his Grace was being pulled out of his chest. "I believe I can. The pull is very strong."

Sarah rolled her eyes, and muttered something under her breath. It sounded a lot like 'You idiots are going to get me killed'. And it made Castiel smile, and think of Bobby.

They packed their bags again and Castiel made to shoulder the heavy weaponry bags, but was stopped when Daniel laid a hand on his arms, caging his hold in to stop them lifting over his head. "No way in Hell, Cas," he said with a shake of his head that felt like an order. "You're ridin' with us. We can carry the load for a little while."

Castiel frowned – they couldn't afford to be slowed down. But the tug on his Grace was insistent; go, go, come, help me, please. "I assure you, Daniel, I -."

"Fuck man, come on, your wings are shaking," the Hunter admonished, interrupting Castiel's lie, and the Angel flushed a little, biting his lower lip and looking down. It was true; his wings hadn't stopped trembling since the possession had swept through his body, and he felt as weak and limp as a newborn baby.

But he was hesitant. He had never ridden a horse, and was doubtful he would be given one to himself – that meant either sharing with Sarah, who was still muttering under her breath and casting glares over his way whenever she felt like he was looking at her, or sharing with Daniel – the man who inspired such aching desire in his Grace, his flesh caging in Castiel's most beloved soul. Either way would be uncomfortable. Torturous.

He bit his lip again, wings rustling in tense anticipation. "Just for a little while," he said, unable to look Daniel in the eye, but he could feel the soul's brilliant shine of happiness from where he stood.

Daniel and he rose the big black mare, who greeted Castiel with another bump of her muzzle against his hand. Her eyes shone with intelligence and Castiel, despite his trepidation around the animal, felt soothed by the beating of her giant, steady heart, the slow, deep in-and-out of her breath. Her flank and neck was soft to his touch, almost silken and so smooth. She reminded him of Angel feathers.

His wings allowed him to sit no other place but behind Daniel – in the back seat, as he was so used to – but the movements of the horse were nothing like the rumbling of Dean's much-beloved car, and he found himself having to cling to the Hunter for much of the journey, slow and cumbersome though it was. His wings itched to fly, to spread wide and find the source of whatever was giving his Grace such a painful tug, but he resisted, and tightened his arms around Daniel instead, breathing in the scent of sweat and leather that had nestled into his skin around the back of his neck.

Daniel would laugh at that, and call him a nervous rider.

Dean would have reached back, wrapped his hand around Castiel's thigh to keep him steady, and ground him. Because Impala or not, the wind as the horses moved was freeing, and the scent so familiar and safe. Now more than ever Castiel ached with the desire to go home.

* * *

It seemed like they had been riding forever – forward, forward, always forward – and Castiel's body ached in ways he didn't realize it could. His thighs were sore from the uncomfortable material of the light saddles against his jeans, his legs tired from wrapping tight around the horse's belly to try and keep his balance – his wings, for the same reason, were sore and drained.

Help me. The words hit him out of nowhere, and he released Daniel to clutch at his head, crying out in pain and burying his face into the back of the Hunter's coat. The light of their grey sky seemed too bright, piercing. Behind the words he heard the chatter of demons. Please. Help.

"Cas?" Pain exploded down his side, and Castiel opened his eyes to find himself staring at the sky, breathing heavily through clenched jaws and flared nostrils. He couldn't talk again; his wings felt like they were being ripped out of him, dragged along by his feathers to the source of the voice. "Castiel!"

Fly, the voice urged. Fly.

He had no choice but to obey; his wings arched up and he was in the air before he could think about it, Daniel and Sarah's frantic voices behind him quickly fading away. He could hear the horses; quick to follow, but he was an Angel. He could outfly them all. He felt like he was being torn in two – unnatural desire to fling himself into the empty air in front of him weighing on the need to stay back, to guard his Hunters, to guard Dean, but the supernatural won out. The urge was too great for him to fight back, weak and hapless as he was.

The dark silhouette against the sandy peach of the ground drew his attention. There was a bright flash of color bordering the shadow, but most of it was in darkness. Castiel soon came to realize why as he approached, landing on the hard earth far less gracefully than someone of his breed should, and ran towards the shape, a dreadful conclusion forming in his mind.

It was a Mocker.

The scene reeked of blood.

"No," he whispered, eyes wide with horror. The Mocker's wings were spread out wide, red tinging the edge of the black feathers, and someone had laid a coat over the body, hiding the face. Castiel knelt down by the Mocker's side, pulling back the coat to reveal the face of a young man, no older than thirty on the surface, but barely recognizable under the mass of beaten flesh and scar tissue, fresh and old blood drying around his mouth and his nose and the corners of his eyes. "No, Father, God, no."

The Mocker shifted at the sound of his voice, letting out no sound but a distressed whine like a dying dog, and Castiel leaned in, shushing him quietly, stroking through his hair and urging him to be silent. "Peace, my son, I'm with you now." He reached for his Grace, urging it to come forth and help this dying soul, but he could not – his Grace retreated, and Castiel hissed in frustration and anguish when he realized that the reason was because this Mocker was beyond even his help.

What good was he, as an Angel, if he could not heal?

The Mocker's fingers and wings twitched, and eyes the color of winter skies slitted open, barely visible. He tried to open his mouth, but no words could form – instead he coughed; weak, bitter, bile and blood spilling up out of his mouth.

"Hush, young one," Castiel urged again, reaching forward and helping him sit so that he didn't choke on his own blood. Even half-gone, that was a horrible way to die. The Angel clenched his eyes tightly shut, fighting back the urge to weep. His hands kept their soothing rhythm through blood-crusted hair. "What is your name?"

Weak, barely a whisper; "Matthew."

Matthew. One of the preachers to men. Castiel drew in a deep breath, pressing his face to the top of the young Mocker's head – who had done this to him? What had happened? Perhaps a Hunt gone wrong or something equally horrific.

"Where is your master?" Castiel asked, raising his eyes to look around for another telltale patch of blood, some clue as to why this young Mocker was abandoned and alone.

The word was a sob; "Gone."

"Oh, Father." The Angel was at a loss of what else to say; this poor creature, to be so far gone and surely within Death's clutches now. "Father, I wish I could help you."

The Mocker gave another weak sound, wing twitching, feathers just barely brushing against Castiel's, and without hesitation the Angel spread his wing out in return, flattening it over Matthew's blood-crusted feathers, eager to share with him the connection of the living, one more time before he passed on.

"…Will it hurt?" So small, so fucking young and scared. Father, why did it hurt so much?

At that, Castiel let a tear fall, squeezed from the traitorous space between his eyelid and his cheek. He pressed his lips together, placing a kiss against the top of Matthew's head. "I don't know," he whispered, because Matthew didn't need to know that it did; it would. It would hurt like Hell. "I don't know, but I wish – Father, how I wish I could welcome you to the Gates of Heaven, young one. I wish you could see it."

He wished for so many things.

"Father," Matthew whispered, the blasphemy rolling easily from him because Castiel was the Mockers' God, and the Angel didn't correct him; merely held him tighter and tried not to cry. "Father, you must know. There is a snake."

Castiel frowned, then, opening his eyes. A snake? What did Matthew mean? It was too cold for creatures such as that anymore – the ice age had wiped most of them out. "What?" he asked, stumped for what else to ask – Matthew was fading fast now, lids drooping back now, eyes closed, shoulders going lax. "Matthew, tell me what you mean. What do you mean?"

"Snake." The word was slurred, breathed into the cool air around Castiel's chest, and he felt Matthew finally go limp in his arms. His hands refused to stop stroking through the Mocker's hair, even when his nails turned sharp and dug in with enough harm to hurt anything that remained living.

Another few tears fell, then, the Angel mourning over a death of his son, so savagely beaten and left to die. Where had his master gone? Where were his brothers? Who had left him out here in the middle of nowhere to suffer so awfully?

Castiel had no idea. But he would find out. This treachery would not go unnoticed.

A chill fell across him, then, colder than the rest of the world at that moment, and Castiel raised his head to the sight of an old man, dressed in a black suit, with hair the color of a starless sky falling down the sides of his weathered face. He held a cane in one hand; the other was tucked into his suit jacket, hidden away from sight.

Castiel's arms tightened around the body of his creation. "Where do you take them?" he demanded, angry now, scared for what would happen to Matthew's soul when he had crossed over into the next life – where would they go? Where had Dean gone? Could he come back? Castiel needed answers; Faith was not enough anymore.

Death remained silent. "Tell me!" Castiel yelled again, upper lip curling back in a snarl, wings tight and aggressive against his back. He clung to Matthew's body as though by sheer force of will alone he could outlast the certainty waiting to welcome the Mocker into the next life.

Death tilted his head to one side, a smile on his face that was almost sad. Silver cuffs shimmered around his wrists. "I can't tell you," he murmured, earning a broken, defeated sob from Castiel. "You know that."

"Why?" Castiel whispered. He'd lost his voice now, wings sagging to the ground. "Why can't you? What is being kept from me?"

Death raised a brow. "I imagine a lot of things. You're hardly an Angel anymore."

Castiel barely suppressed a hiss, fingers tightening into the dead flesh of his heir. Then, as quick as it had come, the anger was gone, and he breathed out. "Be gentle with him," he pled, eyes down on the ground. "Please."

"I have never harmed a soul," Death replied, reached down and taking the ethereal form of Matthew's body from Castiel's hands, embracing the glowing soul tightly to his chest and tucking it away into his jacket with all the rest. "Until next time, Castiel," he said, with a courteous wave of his cane-holding hand, and disappeared with a smile.

Daniel and Sarah found the Angel, clutching a blood-stained coat and a beaten Mocker. Castiel looked up, mourning tears just barely shed when he heard the hoof beats of the two horses stutter to a stop, and could say nothing. Continued to say nothing when Daniel dismounted and knelt by his side.

"Is it…?" He didn't say the word, fingers reaching forward to lightly hover in the air above the Mocker's body.

Castiel's exhale was like a sob. "His name was Matthew," he said.

Daniel blinked. "You knew him?"

Castiel shook his head, his fingers curling in tighter to the blood-stained coat around Matthew's body, before he carefully pulled his wing away, edges of his feathers crusted with blood, and allowed the body to lie down and rest. They could do nothing for him – they had not the tools to bury his body in such a frozen ground and Castiel's Grace refused to come to his aid around the creature. "No," he whispered, closing the dead Mocker's eyelids all the way like Dean had taught him to do for the dead. "No, but he was mine." His fingers refused to release the coat, holding it tight against his belly as he pushed his fist against himself, trying to quell the rolling nausea in his gut. "Someone did this to him."

"Someone?" That was Sarah, and she had joined them now, standing guard over the two men, her eyes roving the horizon as she stood close, arms folded. "How do you know?"

"Where are the other bodies?" Daniel asked before Castiel could answer, drawing the attention of both the Angel and the female Hunter. "Mockers can take down all kinds of shit – if something did this to him, there'd be evidence somewhere. It's like…it's like he just fell out of the sky."

"Or he was killed by someone he didn't expect an attack from," Sarah said grimly, with a twist to her mouth that meant she suspected that was the better theory; finishing the thought that Castiel had dared not put a frame to in his own head. By the Father, what if he had? What if Matthew's master had attacked him, or a member of his own kind?

Unbidden, a snarl rose up in Castiel. If it was other Mockers who had done this, then they would pay. If Matthew's master had done this, Castiel would hunt the miserable wretch down until he was begging to have his pathetic life spared. Mockers were only the most trusting and loyal and unchanging of any creature that had been made since Angels and Castiel would not let such a betrayal stand.

This was an act of war.

"He said that his master was gone," Castiel finally said after a long moment; with the knowledge, the Hunt in his head, his Grace had finally stopped churning – had cooled and flattened like ice on a lake and when he looked up at his Hunters his eyes and voice were steady and sure. "We need to find this man. We must."

"We have another Hunt already, Castiel," Sarah replied, voice soft but firm – they had already exhausted themselves getting this far for the rugaru pack and she would not allow them to chase off on some fool's errand. "But after, maybe, when the Hunt is done."

"Let's burn the body. Give him a Hunter's death, at least," Daniel said with a squeeze to Castiel's shoulder and a small smile. The Angel forced himself to his feet, freezing toes curled against the barren ground, and spared one look to the Mocker's body.

"There is no need." And he could feel Daniel and Sarah's questioning glances on his back – they made his wings itch. He looked up, forcing a small, tired smile to his face, clutching the coat tight to his chest. "His soul won't trouble anyone anymore."


	4. Capture

They settled around their fire that night, lit because it was colder up North and ice still tugged on the crust of the frozen Earth, causing the horses to slip and the wind chill at nighttime to drop dangerously low, even for humans in the company of an Angel. The fire was meek, barely a spec in the darkness of the land around them, but it was hot, aided by Castiel's Grace – which had returned to full strength when they had left the Mocker's body – and they were all comfortably warm.

Castiel was rinsing the blood from his feathers, which had crusted and dried, forcing the finer ones to stick together and become uncomfortable. Through his entire grooming process, where he would reach back and dig his nails into the glands at the base of his wing, coaxing oil out to rub into the feathers and then comb out with his fingers once it had dried, Castiel could feel Daniel's eyes on him – fervent, dark, so green when he dared to glance the Hunter's way, meet his eyes. It was as though Daniel could see deeper than Castiel's skin, or his feathers when he drew them tight around his body in anxious defense; perhaps the Hunter could sense the longing and the love rolling under Castiel's skin, tingeing his Grace a weak blue. Perhaps he knew enough about Angels to read their wing stances, could see Castiel's desire in the arch of his wings or the upward bristle of his top layer of feathers.

Daniel and Sarah ate in silence for the most part, and Castiel did not eat at all, but merely concentrated on his wings and tried his best to avoid Daniel's eyes. The Hunters were reclining against another structure Castiel had molded for them, Sarah's legs curled in, Daniel's crossed at the ankle and out, relaxed. One arm was thrown over her shoulders and it hurt to see, to acknowledge, and so Castiel didn't.

When he was finished picking the dried blood and oil from his wings, and had wiped his hands clean on his jeans, he pulled the bloodstained coat closer on his lap, fingers smoothing out over the coarse material. It was rough against his touch, thick sheep or alpaca wool more than likely the outer material, and the inside was no more comfortable – no fine lining marked it as an expensive piece of clothing. There had been little extravagance in Matthew's life, Castiel imagined.

He pressed against the stains of blood and shivered, feathers rustling as he closed his eyes. Love and power lingered in these stains; someone had killed something they loved. Someone had been hurt by something they loved. Castiel could not fathom a man or woman striking down their Mocker, any more than Castiel could have struck down Dean or Sam or Bobby, or Daniel and Sarah now. He could not fathom it.

"Let me see that," Sarah suddenly said, piping up for what felt like the first time since they had left the site of Matthew's death, and Castiel reluctantly handed the coat over to her. Immediately she folded back the collar, pressing her lips together as she tilted the coat to try and read the label sewn onto the inside. "Danny, you recognize this label?"

He sat up, peering closer with squinting eyes, and Castiel again had to look away. Such old eyes. "…No, can't say I do," Daniel said slowly, as though unsure of his answer and Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Well can't say why you would. We only buy pretty much everything from here. Singer & McCloud. They sell Hunting gear – everything; warm clothes, guns, knives, salt rounds. Anything and everything a Hunter could need."

Daniel blinked, raising an eyebrow, and took the coat from Sarah's hands, examining it as though he had just seen it for the first time. Castiel was startled at that piece of news – Singer & McCloud? Two names he doubted he would ever forget. But Bobby and, he suspected, though he could never be sure, Crowley were both dead. Had been for a very long time.

A family business? Had Crowley procreated, fallen and sired heirs just like the rest of the demons had? Did Crowley have a Mocker for a son?

Had he just died in Castiel's arms?

"I need to know who owned this," Castiel insisted, gesturing towards the coat. "Anyone who has slain a Mocker should be punished for it."

Both Daniel and Sarah raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't reply; "Cas," Daniel said, shaking his head a little, "there's probably hundreds of these things made. It's pretty standard, don't you think? I doubt anybody in a company as big as this one will have individual records."

The Angel pressed his lips together, wings shifting uneasily; there were ways he could get the information. Perhaps a shipping document, and from there the distributors; he could search their minds and they would know which Hunters were heading to which climates, would need which gear. He could search. It would take weeks, months, maybe years, but he could search, and he would find the man or woman who did this. He could and he would.

"Hey, hey…" Daniel's soft voice recaptured Castiel's attention, and the Angel blinked and refocused to realize he had been kneading his palms into his thighs, tearing through the worn material of his jeans, and his wings had fanned out, high and big – threatening. "We'll look into it, Cas, I promise. I promise, alright?"

Such sincere, old eyes. Castiel forced himself to relax with a curt nod of his head. "Where is this company based?" he asked, for lack of anything else to say.

Dinner over with, and the Hunters' eyes drooping from weariness, he allowed them to settle onto their bedrolls before answering; "Pretty sure it's in Chicago. That's where most roads lead, anyway."

Castiel didn't understand the reference, but it had been a long time since he had ventured out into the land of the living, breathing human population. It was oddly comforting, not understanding what Dean – Daniel – was talking about.

"Just like old times," he murmured under his breath, and settled his wings tightly around his body, laying back against a mound of earth to rest.

* * *

The wind chill rose, the temperature dipped, and Death visited Castiel in the nighttime.

The Angel was broken out of peaceful meditation by the appearance of Death, and opened his eyes to see the man-like certainty walking towards him, with purpose, cane in hand stabbing into the ground as though he held a vendetta against the life caged within the Earth, and he rose to his feet, one wing flaring out on instinct to shield the sight of Daniel and Sarah's slumbering bodies from Death's sight.

Which was ridiculous. No one escaped Death's sight.

"You're not taking them," he hissed out, teeth bared in a snarl as Death continued to approach, until they were standing very close together. Death looked bored – he always looked bored, even when the Apocalypse was nigh. It was just another day for him. "I won't allow it."

"You were once a God," Death said plainly, clearly unimpressed. "A Creator. Every Creator needs to be destroyed. But today is not your day." Then, Death gestured to the dark space beside himself, illuminated only by the wave of his hand so the blackness transformed into pale flickering grey like an old (old, very old) movie.

It drew Castiel's eye, and the Angel slowly relaxed, letting his wings fall back to his sides. Nothing appeared in the grey smudge of air beside Death's hand, and he frowned after a moment. "What are you showing me?"

"Patience," Death replied with a roll of his eyes. "Always the same, living things. They have no patience."

"I am not living," Castiel remarked dryly, with a slight smile.

"No argument there."

Then, in the space next to Death's hand, shimmered into sight a ghostly form of a man – younger than Castiel's vessel, but older than Daniel and Sarah. His face was haggard and rough but even in the monochrome visage he presented, his eyes were bright, his hair a lighter grey than his skin. Silver hair, perhaps. He looked like he was cold, clutching his arms tightly around his middle, and his shirt was tattered, looked like it had been shredded. Blood ran down from the corner of his mouth and there were claw marks on his chest.

Death was watching the visage expectantly. "Who are you?" Castiel asked when the soul – for Castiel was sure now that it was a soul, conjured onto the human plain for his sight – remained silent.

The man's eyes snapped to his, and when he breathed out his exhale misted and vanished above his head. "My name is Harry Singer," he said to Castiel, who blinked at the name.

"You're a very long way from home," he said.

The soul looked around as though just noticing their surroundings, and then his eyes widened, panic flaring in the soul as surely as in someone living. "Where is he?" the soul demanded, searching around him desperately, around his feet and then above the three of them, in the air. "Matthew, where is he?"

The Angel's eyes widened – Matthew's master. "He's dead?" he whispered to Death, disbelieving.

Death nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. "I have been carrying him with me for quite some time. He insisted that I not leave him behind." The certainty waved his hand vaguely, shimmer of metallic restraints just visible in the false light, "And I do hate finishing a half-arsed job."

Castiel didn't know what he meant by that. The visage of Harry Singer was fading away. "You have both of them now," Castiel whispered. "Will you let them rest?"

"Of course," Death replied with a smile, and with a wave of his hand the trembling soul disappeared. "But I wanted to show you this, Castiel. I remember you used to be such an intelligent thing, and I do tire of this place."

Castiel frowned. "Why?" he asked, wings curling in tight around his shoulders – he hated uncertainty, and there had seemed to be so much of it in the past two days. Like everything he had ever known and ever loved had been ripped from him all over again, every day – every damning second that he looked upon the man who reminded him so much of his beloved mate, whose soul shone so brightly and with so much familiarity that Castiel wanted to weep for him. "Why are you showing me these things?"

Dean sighed. "You used to be so much better than this, Castiel."

"So I've heard," the Angel snarled, "but that has nothing to do with anything anymore. Heaven is closed. Death," he gestured to the creature with a curl to his lips that spoke of disdain, "is in shackles. The dead walk the Earth again in borrowed bodies. This whole world is damned."

Death said nothing, looking down at his manacled wrists. "Yes," he mused, raising one of his hands, examining the play of the glint of ethereal metal caging him in. "Death is caged." Then, he dropped his hand, fixing eyes that were cold and the color of the barren Earth on Castiel. "This world was written off, Angel," he said plainly, tilting his head to one side at Castiel's uneasy rumble. "And just as the world was written off before, everything must be done in pairs. Animals march in two by two, and all of that."

The Angel's brow furrowed in confusion; he had no idea what Death was talking about. "What do you mean?" he demanded, taking a step forward until he would be able to reach with his wings and cage Death in, trap him for answers – though he knew it was foolish, his wings and feathers bristled with the desire to. "This world cannot be gone. There is still so much to do upon it. What will become of humanity? Of Mockers?"

Death sighed. "Do not trouble yourself, Seraph," he said dismissively, raising a hand and laying it against Castiel's cheek in what felt like a mockery of a comforting gesture; Death's touch was cold, chilling, and reminded Castiel of Lucifer's taint. "I suppose you have time."

And with that – again – Death disappeared, leaving Castiel to deflate as though all the air and gravity had rushed back into place with Death gone. Quickly he looked back towards Daniel and Sarah, to make sure their sleep had been undisturbed, was relieved to find them still sleeping peacefully, and he went to check on the horses. He found being around that giant blank mare helped him to think.

She was dozing lightly, resting on three legs, the fourth bent and limp, and he did not disturb her – merely stood close to her to share her warmth. "Father," he whispered, looking up to the sky and sending up his more fervent, desperate prayer; "Please. I am…I am asking for your help. Help me…Save your people. Don't let me lose him again."

The last part was quieter, breathed in shame amidst the exhale of the dozing horses – something that only he and his God should know together. From even the mare, it was kept a secret.

* * *

Death's words stayed with Castiel for a long while after the creature had left, and he was left to ponder them well into the sunrise. He had cast a wing over Daniel and Sarah, letting them catch another hour or two of much-needed sleep; even before Castiel had been bought for them and they had hit the road, he had seen the dark circles under their eyes, the way their bodies moved sluggishly, even if still quicker with better reflexes than a normal civilian. His Hunters needed rest and he would not let them work themselves into the ground.

Not again.

It ended up being mid-morning, close to noon when they set off again, this time tilting their course Northwards, putting the sun as it set on their right as the road split into two parts, then three, and Daniel kept following the one that tracked further North.

"I thought the Hunt was West," Castiel noted at one point during the course of their travels.

"There's a big storm this time of year, always, in the middle of the country," Sarah would tell him in reply. "It's better to try and skirt around it." A pause. "Can't you feel it? The air's getting colder."

And that might have been the case, had Castiel not been able to see flashes of Death at every turn, ever-present at their backs. It was almost poetic, how Death kept following them, as though he were keeping an eye on them, making sure they were going the right way.

Castiel hoped they were.

Matthew and Harry's faces haunted him in the daytime, when the air was clear as he flew above Daniel and Sarah's heads and had very little to think about but what had happened over the past couple of days. Anger stirred in his Grace every time he thought of the beaten and frightened Mocker, of his master who was obviously so distraught, stuck in whatever time he had died in.

He's been dead for a very long time. So Harry had not struck Matthew down. That meant someone else had.

Castiel had taken to carrying the coat, the garment rolled up tight and working well as a pad between the duffle bag of stiff guns at his back, cushioning his sore muscles a little and letting his wings have a better range of movement. The scent of blood on it burned at his nose every now and again, and he committed the scent to memory, wishing that his Grace was strong enough to find the thing that had done this by his senses alone – but it seemed that whatever had made Matthew immune to his Grace was working on the coat as well. Perhaps it was Matthew's blood alone, and that was why he could not dig further into the DNA evidence on it.

His fingers twitched and curled in anger, biting into his palms. It made his Grace burn with rage at the idea of Matthew being ripped apart like that – and it must have been something familiar to him, something he should not have been threatened by. Perhaps another Mocker, or a friend of his master's? Castiel did not know, and he cursed his ignorance – felt human and slow and foolish, helpless, as though another soul had been ripped from him that he could not follow; could not interrogate for answers. He needed answers, was used to receiving them upon a prayer. But Heaven was silent, and the Gates were shut.

He closed his eyes, sighing heavily and letting his sight drop back down to Earth. It seemed so much…browner. There was green, yet, stubborn blades of grass sprouting up with just enough frequency to support life, but still so brown and bleak. He missed green. The world should have more green.

It was then, gazing down at the world and critiquing the color palette, that Castiel realized he couldn't see Daniel and Sarah. He pulled up short, coasting on a wind current and looking behind him, to see if in his mind wandering he had overtaken them and flown too far ahead. But, no, he could not see them. Neither in front of him nor behind.

He was beginning to panic, yellow and red settling hard in his Grace, a ball of lead in his gut, and quickly he folded his wings, ducking down through the air and the wet, cold clouds, heading back along the road to see where they might have gone. He searched out with his Grace, trying to find the souls of his Hunters, or their consciences, but his Grace was hindered by the Mocker blood on his back and he couldn't find them, his Grace too muted and unwilling to extend that far from his body.

No, he thought, unable to comprehend it, as he landed on the frozen Earth hard enough that pain shot up his legs and his bare feet, nearly human flesh impacting on the ground and he hissed when he heard a crack of bone – but luckily his Grace obeyed his order to heal himself and he was standing straight again almost immediately. No. No. Where are they?

"Daniel!" he called out, and he knew immediately that that was a stupid thing to do; never give away your position, Dean had told him. Never let them know where you are. But he couldn't – his Hunters were gone, like they had just vanished, and he couldn't lose them again. "Sarah! Daniel!"

He quickly shoved the bags of guns over his shoulder, dumping them on the ground amidst some longer-growing grass. They would be relatively hidden there but he didn't care enough to fashion a better disguise, and he unzipped Sarah's gun bag, pulling out one of her smaller handguns. His fingers felt clumsy around the weapon – Dean had always checked his gun for him, even after Castiel had regularly joined him on Hunts – but it felt familiar and cold against his palm. Almost as though Dean was with him again.

Without the Mocker blood clogging his Grace, it was free to reach out and search for Daniel and Sarah as he pushed up into the air again, catching the breeze and flying back the way he had come as fast as his aching muscles would allow.

It had been a very long time, but Castiel knew he would remember the sensation of Dean's soul as clearly as though he had held the man just minutes ago. He knew he would have been able to find Daniel – and hopefully Sarah by extension – from his Grace alone, for Daniel and Sarah's bodies had not been protected against Angels finding them – why would they? There weren't any Angels anymore. And Castiel cursed himself for wandering off in his thoughts, cursed his own fickle brain and his own stupid thoughts of war and vengeance for allowing him to notice that Daniel and Sarah had disappeared; ripped out from right under his nose.

He would make the things that did this pay.

He found the horses standing on the side of the road, and the gelding gave a startled whinny at his speedy and sudden approach, stamping his forelegs on the ground and trotting a little ways off, ears flat against his head. The mare was silent and still – something had struck her across the nose and she was bleeding, but seemed calm. Daniel and Sarah were nowhere to be seen, but all of their gear was still attached to the horses' backs. It was as though they had just disappeared, or fallen.

"Where did they go?" he whispered to the horses, approaching the mare as she flicked her ears up to look at him, dark eyes intelligent and calm. It unnerved him, how calm this horse was in the face of her riders being attacked and disappearing. Like she was used to being attacked and then thrown aside until they found her again.

And Castiel's mouth twisted when she rumbled at him, thinking of Dean's car. The mare shook herself of dust, snorting out of her flared nostrils, and lowered her head to graze as though nothing was wrong. Castiel pressed a hand against her shoulder, his fingers stroking along the grain of her sweaty coat, and it was then he noticed a very white slip of paper, tucked into the pommel of the saddle, and, frowning, he took it out, unfolding it to reveal black, flowing script written in ink – like an old quill might have done.

I think you already know where to find them, was all it said, the 'y's and the 'f' and 'I' almost obnoxiously stylized, taking up the entirety of the paper where the others letters didn't. It was signed with just one letter – C. Castiel's mouth twisted again, his eyes flashing in anger as he crumpled up the note between his fingers, his wings flexing, barely controlled as he fought the urge to immediately push into the air and fly as fast as he could. That would do nothing.

At least he knew Daniel and Sarah would not be harmed. Not until he had reached them.

He fetched the gelding, soothing the frightened animal until he had calmed, and allowed his long reins to be tied to the mare's saddle, and he led both of the horses back towards the duffle bags he had left hidden among the grass, which he then attached to the gelding's saddle as best he could. He mounted the mare, his wings shifting uneasily and thighs tensing in remembered discomfort, but it was the only way to ensure the horses and gear weren't left behind – he doubted it would be a popular choice if he did.

Besides, the mare was so level-headed. One of them had to be, he supposed; to have the heart and body of a machine, merely react to the press of a foot and the pull of a hand. To be a creature forged specifically to carry, to protect, to handle.

"Let's go, Baby," he whispered to her, laying a hand under her mane to stroke across her neck, before he dug his heels in and the horses set off at a canter, which he had found to be the easiest gait to ride on without feeling like he was going to fall.

* * *

Daniel woke up feeling as though his mouth had been stuffed full of cotton and threaded down through his insides – everything was fuzzy, and it took him at least three tries to blink his eyes all the way open. His fingers reacted slowly to his attempts at movements, and when he kicked his feet they sluggishly dragged along the ground and refused to flatten, to keep him upright.

He heard a soft groan to his left, and tilted his fuzzed head to try and focus his eyes on the source of the sound. He could see Sarah's blurred silhouette and, though he was still trapped and obviously dazed with no idea where he was, the knowledge that she was there with him made him relax, if only a little.

He could neither see nor hear Castiel.

"S'rh." Her name came out as a slurred jumble of consonants, no shape to it, but it got her attention and she lifted her head to look at him. They were braced against a wall, feet and arms shackles loosely – and by that it meant they had enough room to move their arms and legs, but their limbs were quite firmly encased in what looked like silver manacles.

The floor was dusty and there were scraps of old hay lying around, the dust and dander tickling at Daniel's nose until he sneezed violently, rubbing at his face with his hand, which made the chains clink almost unbearably loudly in the small space. Slowly, his head was clearing and his eyes were starting to focus.

The room was dark, lit only by a set of three stairs leading up to an open doorway, and instead of a door there was a thick iron grate that allowed sunlight, and was heavily padlocked with a large bolt running down the inside of it into the floor. The chains looked rusted and old, but strong, and Daniel knew without looking that the manacles they were in did not stretch far enough for them to even think about chipping away at it.

He sighed, clenching and unclenching his fingers as he tried to work blood flow back into them, stretching his legs out. It was then that a sharp pain flared up in his leg and he cried out, immediately curling it back into his body, flattening his hands along the source of the pain – there was blood staining his jeans and, when he pressed against the material, he could feel an unnatural jut of bone against his hands. He gritted his teeth, trying to breathe hard through the pain until most of it had passed – it had served to sober him up completely, though. His mind was sharp.

"Danny? You okay?" came Sarah's concerned voice, and the clink of metal as she moved closer to him, until he could feel her thigh pressing against his uninjured leg and her arm around his shoulders. "Are you hurt?"

"Think I – fuck – thing my leg's broken or something," he hissed back, sweat breaking out on his forehead now. Godfuckingdamnit that hurt. "Must've – shit – happened when I fell off the horse."

"What the Hell happened?" Sarah demanded at that, looking around to take in the dirty basement they had been thrown into. "Did you see who it was? I don't…" She grimaced, touching a hand to her forehead, and shook her head.

No. Daniel hadn't seen who it was that had struck them down, but he remembered a man in a suit appearing to them on the road – short, stocky, with five o'clock shadow and a smarmy look on his face, a gleam in his dark eyes that meant he was looking for trouble. He had been dressed well, even for someone this far North where the people tended to be wealthier, surviving off of mining new, fresh oil that had been created with the birth of the new world.

"Where do you think we are?" she asked after a while, when Daniel's breathing had calmed and the pain in his leg had dulled to a background thrum of discomfort, radiating through him like the cotton feeling had.

He lifted his shoulder in a shrug, turning to prop himself against her body and she let him, curling an arm around his shoulder, close, and letting him rest his sweaty forehead against her cheek. For now they rested – soon, he knew, they would try and shove the bone back into his leg, bind him tight and then try and find a way out of here, but for now he was tired and in pain and he wanted to sleep.

"Where's Cas?" he asked, just as sleep was tugging at the edges of his consciousness, worry for the Angel sudden, creeping up on him like a bad dream waiting to pounce on his mind. Though Daniel had not been around the Angel much, he had never been uncomfortable around him – and he felt his absence like a chill, as though someone had stolen the warmth from his stomach. It made him uneasy, to think that the Angel might have been left behind, or taken somewhere else – maybe those that had attacked them had been after the Angel, thought him to be a Mocker and tried to steal him. Maybe they had taken Daniel and Sarah away and then lured Castiel into a trap and maybe he was gone, attacked, hurt, bleeding – maybe he was dead.

The very thought made him want to throw up.

"I don't know," Sarah replied, and it didn't help; God, where was the Angel? Where was he? "Look outside, Danny," she whispered, squeezing his shoulder. "It's still daylight out."

"Yeah," he noted, voice tight with pain and worry. "So?"

"That means either we slept a long time, or no time has moved at all. We weren't brought here by men." Sarah's voice was low and controlled, as though she was suddenly afraid of being overheard, and Daniel felt his body go tense at the same realization; whatever had happened to them, whatever had attacked them in the middle of the road, it – he – hadn't been human.

"I hope Cas is okay," Daniel murmured, his voice once again slurring as pain and exhaustion caught up with him once more, digging their icy fingers in and dragging him down. Even the faint nausea he felt in the pit of his gut, worrying over Castiel, and their own fate, could not keep him awake. "'Cause if he isn't, these bastards are gonna pay."

* * *

Even though Castiel pushed the horses as fast as he could, strengthening them with his Grace – as much as he could spare – so that they could keep running, Chicago was still another day or so away by the time he was forced to let them stop lest they collapse right out from under him.

He soothed the mare and gelding, using what little strength he had left while still carrying the Mocker blood to wave away their exhaustion, and led them toward the abandoned building he had chosen as a place to stop for the night and let the horses rest. He tied their reins loosely to one of the broken old fence posts surrounding the gutted building, which allowed them to graze, and apologized to them for not being able to provide more.

The ramshackle square of rock – for that is all it really could have been called, the building sinking down in one corner and barely a roof on it anymore, either scrapped by scavengers or just decaying over time – managed to shield him from a little bit of the cold and most of the wind, so he couldn't find it in himself to complain too much.

It was then, when he was settling down to rest and letting his Grace dim in an attempt to recharge it, that he heard the soft, low growl of a dog. He froze, tilting his wing just a little to be able to see the rabid, glowing yellow eyes of the animal, froth foaming at its mouth and jagged cuts down its legs and face. Its fur, which had been perhaps yellow once, was blackened with dirt and grime and no doubt dried bits of blood.

He tried to remain perfectly still as the dog snarled at him, ears flat back against its head and a tremble to its body, teeth too white amongst the foam in its mouth – he tried to be still, but the instinct to run or to fight was very hard to ignore. He rose to his feet, wings flaring out in an attempt to intimidate – he was bigger, stronger than the dog – but its mind was likely lost to the disease and as soon as he straightened up, it attacked.

It was reflex to push out with his Grace, throwing his forearm up so that the animal's jaws wrapped tight around the bones in his arm, almost crushing them with the strength of his jaws, clamping down hard enough that Castiel gritted his teeth in pain. But the dog's mouth had been kept away from his throat and that had been the intention.

His Grace shoved at the animal, forcing it to let go of Castiel's arm – though not without taking a good chunk of his flesh with it – and the Angel hissed again, throwing his arm out to hold the dog down so that it couldn't attack him again.

The animal settled with a low whimper, and Castiel could see the shimmer of his Grace in the blood lining the animal's mouth. Even as he watched, the half-crazed glow of the dog's yellow eyes seemed to fade away, the animal licking at the blood around its mouth and Castiel watched as his healing power spread through the animal, no doubt curing it of disease.

He cocked his head to one side as the dog whined, licking at its muzzle again, and he could not feel it fighting against the effects of his Grace, and the dog's tail was trying to tuck low between its legs. Slowly, warily, he unclenched his hand and lowered it, calling his Grace back to him and allowing his arm to heal, and the animal's ears perked up, a soft bark coming from the dog, tail wagging twice.

He could sense no more ill will from the animal, could see his Grace rushing through the rest of the dog as it stalked forward, head low to the ground, its eyes now dark brown and friendly and no longer crazed. It wagged its tail again, whuffing softly, and licked at Castiel's limp hand.

The Angel's fingers curled away from the dog, half-expecting another attack, but it merely stared at him expectantly. When Castiel made to sit down again, wings flaring out for balance against the wall, the animal whined softly, trotting closer before its head turned towards the door, and it walked in a small circle under Castiel's watchful eye, before settling itself against the Angel's leg, its eyes on the door so that a shaft of moonlight broke through and highlighted the animal, but that most of it was still in darkness.

There was a soft gleam of silver in the moonlight and Castiel tilted his head, sitting up to peer at it – the dog didn't move and whuffed softly, licking its muzzle again as Castiel's fingers gently curled around the leather band around its neck, examining the small pendant attached to it.

It was made of silver, and there was an anti-possession symbol etched into the back of it.

Castiel's mouth twisted into a wry smile. A Hunter's dog.

There was no name on the opposite side of the pendant, as Castiel let it drop again, settling a hand in the warm, dirty fur of the animal's coat. He spared a little more of his waning Grace to clean the dog – as an Angel he knew how uncomfortable dirty feathers and fur could be – and dug his fingers into the soft yellow fur left behind. It was a yellow Labrador and it gave a thankful whine, turning its head to rest its head on Castiel's calf, tail thumping twice against the floor.

It was probably some kind of signal. When Castiel was refreshed, he would perhaps try and peer into the animal's mind to see what had happened to this creature. Animals were harder to read, though, and the Mocker blood was dulling his Grace.

With a sigh, he allowed his eyes to close, his wings falling around him in exhaustion. It had been a long day, and would likely be another tomorrow, and he tried to tell himself that he would be up as soon as his Grace was fully recharged, and back out on the road.

He couldn't afford to waste too much time after all. He doubted the thing expecting him would be a patient one.

* * *

Sarah and Daniel blinked open bleary eyes. Their sleep had been rough and left them groggy, and Sarah had to swallow several times to try and rid her mouth of the cotton-ball feeling. Something, though, had forced her awake; a Hunter's sense of not alone, and she soon realized why, when she turned her head and spied the man who she vaguely remembered meeting in the road.

At once she tense up, rousing Daniel to full wakefulness with a shake to his shoulder. The other Hunter groaned, wincing in the pain at his leg, and lifted his head also, allowing her hands free movement.

"Good, you're awake." That odd accent again, that smirk. Immediately Sarah hated it. She clenched her jaw tightly, doing her best to kill the man with her stare alone. He tutted at her, hands splayed out in a gesture of friendliness. "Come on, darling, we can all play nice here."

"Who are you?" she demanded, helping Daniel prop himself up with a low groan, as Daniel clutched tightly to his injured leg and tried to focus through the pain. "What are you?"

He raised an eyebrow, and sauntered into the light cast by the rising sun outside. Suited, scruffy – yes, definitely the man from the road. "I'm the last of my kind, sweetheart – and you should be oh so familiar with that sort of thing." She frowned, could think of nothing to say, because what he was saying didn't make sense. He took another step forward, crouching down in front of her and careful not to get any of the dirt, dust or hay on the floor onto his suit. "Now, before he gets here," he continued, tilting his head to one side and eyeing her appraisingly, "why don't you tell me how you came to keep company with an Angel of the Lord, hmm?"

Immediately Sarah pressed her lips together, refusing to give an answer. This man knew about Castiel, and she knew neither she nor Daniel would give away anything about the Angel – he had been nothing but good to them and, Hell, he was a fucking Angel of the Lord. Who knew what kind of shit he had in his past – clearly this thing knew him, and it couldn't mean good news.

The man's eyes drifted over her again, his mouth opening, tongue licking along his teeth as he thought. "I see," he said, as though he had just gotten the results of a particularly important test, and then he raised his hand and, with a flick of his wrist, suddenly she heard a snap and then Daniel was screaming in pain, convulsing on the floor.

"Daniel!" she cried out, trying to take hold of his shoulders, to stop him trembling. Blood was dripping out of his mouth and his leg was at the wrong angle entirely and he felt like he was burning up under her hands. "Stop! Stop it!"

"Are you going to answer my questions, darling?" the man asked, casting an apathetic look Daniel's way, and Sarah sobbed again, trying desperately to stop him shaking, but she couldn't – whatever this man was doing to him, it was bad.

She nodded and immediately the man's wrist tilted again and Daniel went still. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and he was breathing hard. "Excellent," he said, with a wide, sly smile coming to his face. "I'm glad we could come to an agreement – negotiations can get so ugly. Now…" He tilted his head to one side, smile widening. "Tell me about the Angel."

"Sarah," Daniel whispered, words slurred with pain, "don't." And then his voice was lost in another cry as the creature's eyes flashed to a deep red, a low snarl of anger rolling from him before the Hunter was once again convulsing as whatever it was he was doing ravaged his body. The room stank of blood.

"Hush now, Mister Winchester," the thing said in a low voice, and Sarah frowned because their last name wasn't Winchester and she had no idea who that was. Deep red eyes turned and locked onto hers. "Talk."

* * *

Pain woke Castiel from meditation.

The Angel jerked awake with a startled cry, feeling like his leg and his chest were on fire. The sudden movement startled the dog, which was on its feet but, thankfully, not barking, staring at the Angel as Castiel curled his body against the floor, teeth gritted in pain, wings thrashing in an instinctive attempt to fight off whatever unnatural force was inflicting this agony on him. His Grace reached out, unbidden, to try and smite whatever was attacking him, but there was nothing there. He could sense nothing but himself and the dog and the horses outside.

Something was happening, but it was not to him.

Another flash of pain, another sound stifled behind his desperately clenched jaw. Unbidden, flashes of Dean, running, being Hunted, chased, and struck down by a monster were coming to his head; he saw Dean bleeding, collapsing from exhaustion and weariness and blood loss. He felt the thrum of his mate's tired soul screaming in agony and it was all he could do not to scream with him.

Dean. Something was happening to Dean.

The Angel's eyes flared open at the realization. Daniel.

He had to get to them – he had already slept too long. He had to get to them now. "So much for unharmed," he hissed, even though he knew no one would hear him, and he rose to his feet as best he could, with his Grace feeling like it was trying to claw its way out of his body and he could barely walk from the pain, but he forced himself to. He was a soldier; he had dealt with pain before.

He could vaguely sense the dog trotting behind him, its low animal whine a background noise to the screams of pain echoing inside of his head, and when he approached the horses the mare looked up to greet him. She seemed distressed; on edge, stamping her foot nervously. Perhaps she could sense Castiel's illness. Perhaps she could hear Dean's screams too.

"We have to go," he told her, gathering up the reins and making sure the gelding was still attached. Her ears went forward at the sound of his voice, and she snorted loudly, shaking herself out. It was harder than Castiel had anticipated mounting her, as though his entire body was protesting getting back on the horse, but he had to – Dean was in trouble and his wings were tired and he had to.

"Run, Baby," he urged her, digging his heels in as hard as he could. She jumped forward with a startled whinny and, after resistance, the gelding followed behind. He had never known a horse to run this fast – it almost felt like flying, with the wind dragging its freezing fingers through his wings as though trying to hold him back and slow him down.

He heard the dog barking loudly, the sound gradually fading away.

* * *

"What are you?" Sarah hissed out, tears streaming down her face. Everything was agony, the like of which she'd never felt before. It felt like her brain was being dipped in acid and set on fire, and Daniel had stopped screaming a while ago. She shuddered to think what this thing was doing to him.

"I'm between jobs at the moment," came the bored-sounding reply, another thin, too-hot needle threading under her skin. She had been reluctant or unable to answer things about the Angel – Castiel – and it turned out their host didn't like ignorance. Or silence. "Since Hell is closed for renovation."

She screamed without a voice, the sound strangled and hoarse from her bloody and raw throat. Daniel grunted softly next to her, eyes clenched tightly shut in pain. Sweat coated him like a second skin and she could vaguely feel his hand reaching out for hers but she couldn't concentrate and everything was pain.

"Don't talk," he whispered to her, unsure if she could hear. "Sarah, don't talk."

The man paused for a moment, raising an eyebrow in the Hunter's – Daniel's – direction. It was strange, how similar he looked, even down to the color of his eyes. And his soul. Yes, he would never not recognize that soul – the thing that had thrown a spanner in all of the creature's great works. His mouth twisted into a tight grin, eyes appraising. But dormant. So strong, Mister Winchester was, but very dormant; the soul was pulsing with pain, a distress cry that he was sure Castiel would be able to hear – one doesn't mate with a human without certain…side effects.

He checked his watch. Should be any moment now.

"Whatever you want to know about Cas," Daniel grit out, blinking open pain-filled eyes to snarl at the thing keeping them hostage, "you can go straight back to Hell."

The creature smirked wide, eyes flashing a deep red. "I don't think you fully understand -."

"Exorcizamus te," the Hunter grit out, and the thing's eyes widened, a familiar nausea rolling in his stomach as his soul instinctively fought back the words of the exorcism; Hunters weren't supposed to know it anymore. Demons were extinct. "Omnis immundus spiritus -." The words were silenced by another loud cry, the demon clenching his fist, sealing the Hunter's mouth shut so he could no longer speak.

It was time to take a break. Darling Angel was due to arrive at any moment.

The demon disappeared, freeing Daniel's mouth again and he gasped, quaking as the pain disappated and he was left in the aftermath of it.

"What…" Sarah gasped, tilted pain-glazed eyes towards her companion, "what the fuck was that? Those words?" she demanded.

"I don't…"Daniel frowned, tried to even remember them, let alone where they had come from. His mind was blank, though, and he couldn't even begin the exorcism again even if he tried. If his life depended on it. It wasn't his knowledge to have. "I don't know."

* * *

Chicago was not as Castiel remembered it from the world before. Of course, he knew it was naïve for him to have expected it to be, but he couldn't help but feel some small amount of surprise as he guided the horses through the dirty, decrepit streets. There was no real road to speak of anymore, no highway, and no tall buildings to mark a skyline. Castiel was only really aware that he had reached the city because the tie of his Grace to Dean's soul was trembling in excitement – he was so close. So close to being reunited with his mate.

In the very center of the city, it appeared as though a bomb had been set off – there was a large expanse of pure flat land; grass grew in the sparse dirt and rubble – and no attempt had been made to clear the place up. In the middle of the clear area was a large factory-type building, complete with red bricks and a chimney gushing out think black smoke. It looked out of place, as though someone had cleared the land and then made it appear out of thin air in the middle of the dead zone.

Castiel thought, with a wry, almost amused smile, that it looked like someone wanted to see everyone that was coming.

The building had a large white billboard erected around thirty feet in front of it, declaring the factory as Singer & McCloud's, and the Angel's grip on the reins tightened. This was it. This was the place. His very Grace throbbed with anger but he forced himself to keep himself in check, dismounting the horses and wincing at the very mortal complaints his body was sending him. He resisted the urge to heal himself, instead busying his hands with grabbing the coat stained with Mocker blood; he would need to save his Grace if he was indeed dealing with the thing that he had suspected had taken Daniel and Sarah.

His nail twisted, dug into the material of the coat. He would pay if either of them had come to irreversible harm.

He might pay anyway.

There were no people outside of the factory gates, and Castiel almost expected there to be some kind of Angel-proofing carved into the building, but the place was utterly without wards, protection spells; anything. It unnerved him, almost, how blatant this place was being, as though daring to be attacked or assumed to be of no threat by anyone. Of course, Angels and Demons were meant to be extinct…and this was a place for Hunters.

On the inside, the building was fairly unimpressive. Castiel could hear machines whirring away underfoot, but the main door opened to an almost empty warehouse; the right wall was piled high with boxes declaring their destinations as anywhere from Alaska to New Mexico, and Castiel could sense nothing malicious about them; the entire place was decidedly normal, if a little empty and Castiel's wings rustled nervously. There was nothing but cold cement and the screech and rumble of machines downstairs.

The Angel looked around carefully, casting his Grace out in attempt to find the creature. Then, the room seemed to darken, and his Grace flared instinctively in hatred at the evil taint that seemed to fill the room like blood, and he bared his teeth, slowly turning around to face the suited, smiling man.

"Crowley," he stated in a low, deadpan voice, trying to keep his anger under control. His hand clenched underneath the coat he felt, fighting to stop himself from summoning his Angel blade and running the demon through. "I thought you were dead."

"Likewise," the demon replied with a large smile, hands spread out in a gesture of welcome. "The little Angel on humanity's shoulder – not much has changed, has it?" he asked, in a voice that ruffled Castiel's feathers and made him dig his nails into his own fists. "So," Crowley said, taking a step forward, "how did you do it?"

Castiel cocked his head to one side, brow furrowing in confusion. Do what? Survive? "I don't know what you mean," he said slowly.

"It couldn't have been a deal," the demon hissed out, anger coloring his voice now. "And I know that there is no way -," He was shouting now, pointing back towards the door, to the outside. "That Dean Winchester is back on Earth without something putting him there. So how did you do it?"

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tongue, Hellspawn," he hissed, wings flaring out in anger and threat. "I know just as much as you do."

"Oh, I highly doubt that, Angel," Crowley said derisively, raising an eyebrow. "Come, we were once business associates – let me in."

His tone was persuasive, his smile welcoming, and Castiel wanted to stab him in the neck with his blade; his fingers itched, empty, and the Angel just fought back a snarl. Without a word, he balled up the coat in his hands, and threw it on the ground between himself and the demon. Crowley's eyes darted to it, lighting up in interest. "First," Castiel murmured, voice low and terse, "I want information."

Crowley raised his other eyebrow. "On a coat?" he asked, sauntering forward and leaning down to pick it up daintily between two fingertips. "I suppose this…" He wrinkled his nose distastefully, tilting his head, "is not your blood?"

"It belonged to a Mocker named Matthew, who was owned by a man named Harry Singer," Castiel replied, eyes focused on Crowley's face for any sign of recognition in the demon. Crowley's dark eyes flashed to him, surprised.

"Singer," he murmured to himself, pressing his lips together in a thin line. "And that brought you here?"

"The coat was made by this company," Castiel said with a small frown. "And your human name was McCloud – don't play coy, Crowley, it doesn't suit you."

"Skipping the foreplay, as usual," the demon replied with a sigh, letting the coat drop to the ground. "What is the information I can give to you worth, Castiel? I'm still rather fond of deals, even with my…downright absurd demotion, thanks to your pets." He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly, and tilted his head to one side, rocking on the balls of his feet, hands folding behind his back.

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "I have nothing to bargain with," he replied, wings fanning the air a little behind his back. Crowley's eyes had begun to gleam dangerously and Castiel shuddered at the thoughts running through the demon's head. "I can merely tell you what I know."

"Assuming it's truth," Crowley said.

"Assuming what you tell me is true, yes," the Angel countered, eyes flashing. "I'm not here for conflict, Crowley – as far as I am concerned we can both go our separate ways after this. I am here for my Hunters, and for any information regarding who may have killed this Mocker."

"You cannot be of any use to me, then," Crowley said in a bored-sounding tone, rolling his eyes. "Perhaps those two mud monkeys you're following like a lost dog can help me. It's been a long time since I've seen such pretty green eyes -."

Castiel didn't know what happened; one moment he was holding himself back, the next he had Crowley pinned against the cement wall, forearm against his throat, teeth bared in a snarl and eyes flashing with barely restrained Grace. "You will not touch them," he snarled, growl making his words almost indecipherable. "You will not lay another sin-stained finger on either of them, or I swear by all the power still lingering in Heaven, I will ruin you, Crowley. I will raze you to the ground."

"Someone's touchy," Crowley murmured, outwardly calm, but Castiel could feel the unease in the demon's black soul and it made his Grace glow with triumph. He slowly pulled back, letting the shorter vessel fall back to the ground and Crowley stiffly dusted off his suit. "We sell those coats all over the place," he finally said with a small huff, "and rarely deal with face-to-face. I'm sorry, darling, but I cannot help you."

Castiel snarled. "Once again, you waste my time, Crowley," he snapped, wings flaring out sharply in aggression. "Where are Sarah and Daniel? Take me to them. Now."

The demon sighed, rolling his eyes once more. "Remember when you used to be fun?" he said, turning around and striding back out towards the front door, and Castiel quickly followed the demon out into the open air again, the sun almost glaringly bright and offensive to Castiel's eyes, which had grown accustomed to the darkened interior of the warehouse. Crowley led him around the building's corner where there was another doorway carved into the side of it, a grate serving as the door instead.

Dean was in there. He could feel it.

He took a step forward.

"Oh, and darling?" Castiel's wings stiffened at the name, and he looked over his shoulder to find Crowley fixing him with an unreadable look in his blood-red eyes. "I will find out what you're hiding eventually. The world is a much smaller place now."

The demon was gone and the air seemed lighter with his Hellish taint removed from Castiel's sight, and the Angel flared out his wings briefly, before he shoved his hand against the grate. It imploded with a flash of light, crumbling in on itself as though it had never been, and he stepped inside. No sound greeted him, which made his feathers and Grace rustle with unease, but then he heard a soft groan, the shuffle of booted feet against the dirty floor, and he waved his hand, casting the room into a soft yellow light that allowed both he and his Hunters to see each other.

"Oh, thank God," Daniel grit out, pain evident in every line of his voice and immediately Castiel rushed over to the both of them, settling a hand on each of their heads. They were horribly injured, and he could feel the black smear of Crowley's power on their innards, and pushed out with his Grace, wiping away the injuries away with a touch of his hand. "How, how did you find us?" he asked, blinking open eyes that were thankfully lucid and clear of pain when Castiel raised his head to check Daniel over, and then Sarah, making sure he had removed any pain and injury from them. "Cas?"

A hand on his arm, then, gripping surprisingly strong and stopping his movement. The Angel looked down at Daniel's dirty hand, saw his knuckles whiten from the force of his grip, but all he could think was Dean, Dean, I can feel you. Can you feel me? He raised his eyes, hoping for some spark of recognition, something. Dean?

Daniel's eyes were blank of Dean's old soul, but sharp and focused on Castiel with an almost frightening intensity. "How did you get here? Are you alright?"

"How did you get past – who was that thing?" That was Sarah, and Castiel's bright eyes flashed to hers as well. She was worried, suspicion carved into the set of her jaw and the darkness of her eyes, and Castiel didn't want to lie to her. To either of them.

But would ignorance get them into less trouble than knowing? Crowley was sneaky and untrustworthy at the best of times and Castiel had no doubt that the demon would try and hunt down the answers to his questions, one way or another.

No. He had to make sure they were prepared.

With a small sigh and a wave of his hand, their manacles cracked and splintered apart, freeing their wrists and ankles. "His name is Crowley," Castiel said, hitting back on his heels, wings braced behind him for balance, "and he is – or, I suppose, was – the King of Hell."

Daniel blinked at him, leaning his head back against the wall in surprise, and staring up at the ceiling with a low exhale. "Of course," he muttered with a short, sharp laugh. "An Angel and then the King of Hell. Naturally."

"Wait, but Hell's shut – demons are extinct," Sarah argued, brows drawing in together, and Castiel couldn't stop his small smile.

"Just like Angels are, right?" he asked, earning another glare from her, before he pushed himself to his feet, holding out a hand for both of them. "Come, we must move quickly. I doubt our welcome will extend for much longer."

"This was a welcome?" Sarah muttered under her breath, wincing when she tried to push herself up, mildly surprised that she could – that the Angel actually had managed to heal them. However, no sooner had Daniel and Sarah stood than a sharp clang echoed behind Castiel, and the Angel looked back to see the grate had been reassembled, and – his Grace flared and his upper lip curled back in rage – there appeared to be blood staining the metal bars. He tried to reach out, to snap the barrier into pieces as he had before, but the blood made that impossible, and he knew that he had to have belonged to a Mocker – whatever special quality their blood had that made his Grace as weak as a newborn Angel's.

"Crowley," he hissed, striding up to the door, and he peered through to see the demon standing on the other side. He slammed his flat palm against the bars, fingers curling over bloody metal. "I should have known better than to turn my back on a demon."

The creature shrugged, triumph sparking in his eyes. "I told you the world was getting smaller," he said with a smirk. "I just didn't say how smallyours would get. Can't have the new God running around and creating havoc for me, not when I'm still whispering into your little creations' ears." The Angel snarled again, not quite understanding the words but dreading their meaning nonetheless. "So, you'll have to stay here for the time being. Until next time, darling." And then he was gone, and Castiel slammed his fist against the bars again, but the blood lining the metal made it as though he was merely human, and he could do nothing against the strength of the iron.

"Damn it," Castiel whispered, fingers curling tighter around the iron grating, pulling at it again just because he had to do something, knew it would accomplish nothing but had to try anyway. "Damn it."

"So…I guess we're stuck in here for a while." That was Daniel's voice, and Castiel turned his head to look over his shoulder at the man. Daniel had been leaning against the wall, then, looking at Castiel with an unreadable expression. "That means you have time to talk."

There was nothing friendly about those words, though Castiel had no doubt they were meant as merely fact. There was a Hunter's gleam in his dark green eyes and Dean's soul rolled restlessly inside of Daniel's body. Sarah, too, seemed on edge, her eyes searching the Angel's face, looking for answers that he could not give them. Didn't want to give them. How does one confess to the past that Crowley and Castiel had shared? If he confessed to that, he would have to tell them about Dean, and Sam, and Bobby and Ellen and Jo and the Apocalypse and Castiel's fallen Brothers and Aiden and the Mockers and how he, somehow, had become the last Angel facing the last demon on Earth.

He could never deny Dean. His wings fell to his sides, defeated and tired. Everything ached. "What would you like to know?" he asked.

"I want to know how the Hell you know that thing – why there are still demons and Angels walkin' the Earth -."

"Why did he call you God?"

That had been Sarah, and immediately Castiel's shoulders went tense, his fingers curling a little tighter into the grate and into his palm. He bit his lower lip, looking between the two Hunters, and sighed, letting go of the grate and stepping back towards them, away from the light. Words could not describe the pain he felt when he saw them fight the urge to take a step back from him.

"Is your trust so easily lost?" he asked, more to himself than to them, but his eyes were on Daniel – on the man's soul. Dean was so faithful, so unbelievably unwavering in his faith even for a man who had absolutely none in people he'd never met. Those he loved, though, he loved unconditionally, and it hurt, to see something housing Dean's soul that obviously did not.

"Tell us what you know, Castiel," Daniel demanded, voice hard, eyes cold. "Tell us everything."

The Angel sighed. "Very well," he answered, pulling his wings tight to his back and settling himself down on the floor, back to the wall, letting his wings fall comfortably around him so that he could rest. Reluctantly, Daniel and Sarah followed suit. "I was a God – once – for a while, a very long time ago." He paused, looking out of the window, pressing his lips together tightly. "Well, a very bad one. And way before…any of this, anything like this new world happened. We had…we had managed to get past that, but Crowley, I guess, holds grudges. I don't know why he called me that now."

There was a pause, then, as the Hunters processed that information. Then; "…We?"

Castiel closed his eyes. He had hoped they wouldn't ask that. Could he tell them about Dean? Did he dare. He swallowed, his feathers bristling in discomfort. "Crowley and I…were allies, of a sort. Before. He helped me attain the items necessary for the ritual to open Purgatory to gain the power of a God. But, well, it didn't work out well for him. And he does so like a good deal." The half-truth felt bitter on his tongue and he couldn't look either of them in the eye. He wouldn't dare.

"I'd always heard that demons were wiped off the Earth – how is he still here?" Sarah asked, clearly taking his lie to heart, and Castiel swallowed, clenching his eyes tightly shut. Dean would be so disappointed in him.

"The ritual that caused the world to fall into ice – that banished the demons – it didn't quite work out the way those casting it had planned," he began, speaking slowly, thinking carefully about every word he let slip; "It didn't so much banish them as close the gates, and demons and Angels need to draw power from Heaven and Hell to stay strong. When the gates of both places closed, the vessels they inhabited fought back, banished them, and they either died or they fell and became, for all intents and purposes, human."

"…Then why didn't you?" Daniel asked, frowning in confusion.

Castiel forced a small, strained smile to his face. "My vessel…the man who I am wearing – he died a long time before that banishment. I've been alone in this body for a very long time. I suppose that must be why."

"Unless you are a God," Sarah murmured under her breath, low and suspicious.

Castiel tilted his head. "I am sorry – as much as I want to give you an answer; that is one I simply cannot. I have tried to leave this world, but the gates of Heaven are shut and I cannot go there. No matter how much I want to, how much my Grace craves to go there, I cannot." His voice had turned sharp, filled with pain, and he forced himself to stop before he confessed everything, before he let all the feelings and longing he had been keeping bottled up inside for so long to be let loose. He couldn't afford to do that – vulnerability was only okay among family, and those who loved you.

There was no love or family here. Not really.

"Hey, hey – Cas. It's okay, man." Then suddenly Daniel was shifting closer to him, despite Sarah's hissed warning, one hand lightly touching the arch of Castiel's wing to pull it forward and settle it across his lap. The Angel was so shocked at the touch he could be nothing but pliant in Daniel's hands, letting himself brace forward, elbows on his knees, and allowing the Hunter to rub at his back between his wing joints through his dirty and sweaty t-shirt. It took a moment for Castiel to realize that he had been shaking. "It's alright, Cas, you don't have to talk anymore."

It felt like Dean was touching him – the warmth of Daniel's palm; he'd never been touched by the man before. It was more painful that looking into his eyes; Dean would have dug his fingers into the sore muscles in the arches of Castiel's wings, not his back, would have stroked the dirt and sweat out of the feathers, would rub the back of his neck and whisper soothing non-words into the air between them. This touch was awkward, Daniel clearly not really knowing what to do in the comforting department, but his hands were so warm, so sudden on Castiel's wing and back, and for a moment all the Angel could do was shake harder.

"Don't call him 'Cas'," Sarah whispered, her voice just managing to break through the conflicting sensations and emotions running through Castiel's brain. "He doesn't like being called that."

The complete opposite of the truth – Castiel had grown to adore the moniker, rolling off of his lover's tongue, either sleepily drawled in the morning just before his grassy eyes opened, or panted out hard against the pillows, the sheets, Castiel's neck depending on how Dean had wanted to lay with him at night – shouted out in panic or anger when Castiel would do something stupid on a Hunt and risk all of their lives; whispered soothingly with a weak pat on the arm and a small squeeze. 'Cas' had been amongst Dean's last words.

He had never known an Angel's Grace to ache like his was doing now. Could they not see it – the bleak blue of despair coiling tight around his very being, choking off his breath, making his wings tremble and shake and draw in tight? How could they not tell?

"I stayed," he whispered, the words falling from his mouth without the consent of his brain; he couldn't stop them now even if he tried, like they were being ripped out of him with Dean's – Daniel's – touch. "I stayed behind, to…to make sure…and then when I tried to follow, the gates were shut. They'd been shut for so long, and I hadn't known. And now…" He pressed his eyes together tightly shut and felt the cold, salty burn of a tear falling down his face. Father, why did it still hurt so much after so long? "Now, I don't…I can't…"

"Cas." Daniel's voice again, so similar, and comforting, and Castiel turned his face away because he could not bear to look into Daniel's eyes and see that stupid, heartbreaking lack of recognition in them. Dean was his, why could the soul not feel him? What was holding him back? "Cas, it'll be okay, I promise."

It's alright, Cas. You can't save everyone. I'll see ya on the other side. His eyes had closed then, and he'd exhaled, loud and long, for the last time – he'd just let go. Peaceful, easy as anything. Why had it been so easy for him? Had Castiel meant nothing – had everything they had fought for meant nothing?

The hand stroking through his wing was distracting; Daniel had dug his fingers in deep, tugging at the sweat and dirt from the road matted into Castiel's feathers, and it felt good; nice, warm, comforting like he was back with his Brothers in Heaven and grooming with them. He missed the light and comfort of Heaven. He missed the touch of humanity.

He missed Dean.

The Angel took a deep, shuddering breath, shoving the heel of his hand against his face to wipe away the traitorous tears – he was an Angel, damn it. And he shouldn't show weakness in front of the people he was meant to be protecting. Couldn't be vulnerable. He shook his wings out, drawing them tight to his sides to discourage the man sitting next to him to touch him anymore, but if anything that made Daniel moredetermined – pressing close enough that their thighs touched and his hand moved from the middle of Castiel's back down to stroke the base of his spine, thumb digging deep into the knots that had grown there from riding the horses.

Damn Crowley – he cursed the demon for perhaps the thousandth time in his head, teeth bared in a low snarl as he focused on the shaft of light coming in from the outside. He had access to Mocker blood – clearly knew more than he was letting on about the death of the Mockers. Perhaps he had been the one to kill Matthew and Harry – maybe someone had made a deal. Maybe Hellhounds still existed.

"Why aren't you busting us out of here already?" Sarah asked after what seemed like the longest moments of Castiel's life, right after the ones he had spent after Dean's death. "What's holding you back?"

"The Mocker blood," Castiel muttered, waving his red-stained fingertips vaguely towards the door. "Something in it stifles my Grace, and I cannot access it."

"Oh…" She settled back, then, with a small huff, blowing some of her long blonde-brown hair out of her eyes. She was watching Daniel closely, but Castiel didn't pay enough attention to notice if it was with jealousy – her lover was touching the Angel, after all, instead of her – or if it was the mere concern and suspicion with which she had always regarded Castiel. "I'm gonna get some more sleep, then. No rest for the wicked, and all that."

"If anything happens, I'll wake you," Daniel said by way of reply, his hand still stroking maddeningly softly and slowly through Castiel's wings – it made the Angel want to spread them wide, feathers rustling on the tops of his arches, put himself on display for his mate like he used to, but he held himself back. This man wasn't his mate. Not anymore.


	5. Revelation

It was another hour or so before Sarah's breathing evened out and Castiel was sure that she was asleep, curled up in the corner of the room, head resting on one folded arm and legs wrapped tight against her body. Castiel used what little Grace he could to keep the room hot enough for her to be comfortable, but he didn't know how long that would last – the blood was pooling on the floor, seeping into the room. It seemed never-ending.

Daniel was still stroking though his wing, the touch soothing and warm and it filled Castiel's chest with love, adoration, like he used to feel when looking upon Dean's face. He still could not look at Daniel now – not after everything. He was still shaking.

"Who was it?" Daniel whispered, soft enough not to wake Sarah, and Castiel tensed up, daring to peek out of the corner of his eye to where he was sure the Hunter's gaze was focused on his face. "The woman you fell in love with – the woman you stayed behind for. What was her name?"

Castiel had to laugh – Dean, why do you pretend to be so stupid? Why do you ask all the hard questions? He closed his eyes again. "His name was Dean," he whispered, even the name, spoken out loud, made Castiel press his closed fist to his chest, made him feel like he was going to cry again, and yet brought such a wide smile to his face. Dean had always thrown his emotions into a gale he could barely coast upon.

"…Oh." He was confused. Of course he was. "Was he, um, your first owner? Or something?" And he sounded uncomfortable, trying to hide it behind a clearing of his throat. His hand had tightened in Castiel's wing.

The Angel opened his eyes, locking onto Daniel's so-familiar ones. There was no hesitation in what he said next; "He was everything," the Angel insisted, felt like his True Voice might break out of him with the force of his conviction, if he still had a True Voice. That had been lost along with Heaven. "He was my everything. The only reason this world still spins is because of the efforts of him, his brother, and his friends. He -." He had to stop, then, swallowing at the wide-eyed look on Daniel's face. Not even a spark of recognition, of love, from the soul. Nothing. Father, why?

But Daniel's hand tightened, moved from Castiel's lower back to his shoulder and squeezed tight and the Angel froze, his Grace pulsing in memory. "Tell me about him," the Hunter said, encouraging, soft, with this slight smile on his face like he knew exactly what Castiel was talking about, and it was cruel – to himself – to want to think that Dean was listening, that Dean could hear him. But he wanted Dean to be listening, and so he believed.

He had to. Belief was everything.

"I…" The Angel sighed, shaking his head in wonder, but he couldn't look away – like an insect in green amber, he was caught. Stuck. "I don't even know where to start."

"Well, start wherever you feel like starting. I'm pretty good at keeping up." A small smile, then, lifting one corner of his mouth up higher than the other. Like when Dean would be too tired, eyelids drooping, just about ready to fall asleep in Castiel's arms. His hand squeezed Castiel's shoulder again. "Share, Cas. I imagine you've kept quiet about this a long time."

It was unfair to unload all of this on Daniel – the poor unwitting human housing Castiel's mate's soul. But, Father, what if something he said triggered something in Dean's soul? What if Dean finally felt him, if Castiel simply kept talking, kept letting himself be touched like this? What if?

The hand on his shoulder was grounding. "He had a brand on his shoulder," Castiel whispered, the words coming to him and out of his mouth before he could think, and Daniel blinked, loosening his grip, but he didn't pull it away. "Right where you're touching me now. I burnt the mark into his flesh after I pulled him out of Hell."

"…Hell?" Daniel asked, softly as though unwilling to break the silence. "You've been to Hell?"

"And Purgatory," Castiel replied with a slight laugh – Purgatory. Father, that had stories within stories. "And Heaven. So has – had – Dean."

"Was he a demon?"

"No!" The notion was almost funny, that Dean would ever be that dark; his soul shone so bright, even after he had broken, that Castiel doubted even the entirety of Hell could not have spoiled him for good. No, his goodness ran too deep, too purely. Almost like an Angel. "No, he was human. He was…he was the brightest thing I had ever seen outside of Heaven. And he…he was arrogant, and insolent, and disrespectful and angry – so angry. He had no faith, nothing, believed I was nothing more than a glorified…'tax accountant', I think he called me." And Castiel laughed, this time – it was hoarse and sounded foreign in his throat, but he laughed. "And when he first saw me, he tried to stab me – to kill me, can you imagine? And he was…Father, he was everything I had been taught to hate about humanity, but I could not hate him. How could you hate something that shone so brightly?

He saved the world – he, his brother, his friends and his mentor – they all did it. Even when Hell tried to stop them. When I tried to stop them. More times than I can count. And barely anyone knows who they are anymore." They were merely legends lost in an old book now, no greater than the former Presidents or the name of God. Nothing like that existed in this world – merely Death and snow.

Perhaps that was why it had been written off. A God needs belief. There were no believers anymore.

"It sounds like this Dean was a great man," Daniel whispered after a long moment.

Castiel nodded. "He was." He is.

"And you…you lost him?"

Another nod. "I stayed behind after his brother died – they were very closely bonded and it almost tore Dean apart after Sam died, but he stayed because the world still needed a leader, to help wipe out the last of the big monsters that could come after them; teach them to shoot and Hunt and everything they would need to survive." The Angel blinked, feeling tears gathering again and took a deep breath, trying to swallow back the lump that had formed in his throat. "He died on a Monday. Maybe if he had held out for three more days I could have found him, but he was gone, and Heaven was shut and I didn't know where he was and I couldn't find him and I just…He was just gone. Souls don't just disappear."

The hand on his shoulder squeezed again, just gently, rubbing down his arm and back up in what he supposed was meant to be a soothing gesture, but it felt awkward and itched at his skin. Daniel didn't know how to soothe a weeping Angel – how could he? They didn't exist in his world. Still, the warmth against his t-shirt and skin was foreign and he missed being touched, and so he didn't pull away or tell Daniel to stop.

"Maybe the Reapers are taking people somewhere else," Daniel suggested after a long moment, just to break the silence as it became stifling, oppressive. It felt like an itch under Castiel's skin. "Not Heaven or Hell or…anywhere else an Angel knows of. For the Second Coming."

And Castiel snorted; a low, bitter sound. "And do you believe in that?" he asked, turning his head to look at the Hunter's face. "In God? In the Kingdom of Heaven? Please." Another low sound of derision escaped him then; to know and choose not to believe was one thing, but God didn't exist on this Earth anymore, of that he was certain.

Daniel shrugged one shoulder, seemingly unfazed. "Some things don't have to be believed for them to be true. After all, Dean didn't believe in Angels, right?" He paused a moment, giving Castiel time to consider that. "And yet, here you are."

With that, he let go, and the whole room felt colder now without his touch on Castiel's arm. The Hunter shifted as Castiel watched, settling down with a sigh and leaning his head back against the wall. "Get some shut-eye, Cas," he said, swallowing loudly and letting his eyes fall closed. He looked even more like Dean, then – peaceful, younger than when he and Castiel had met, when the world was not so weary and a smile came easily. "Gotta keep up your strength."

"Angels don't sleep, Daniel," Castiel replied with a slight smile.

The Hunter waved a tired hand. "Then just let your mind wander. Shut down for a bit. There's nothing you can do for now, Cas, so close your eyes and just relax."

* * *

Daniel dreamed about the same things he had been dreaming about for the past couple of days – Hunting. Under a different name, a different time; there were buildings he knew no longer existed; there were lights on that seemed to just glow there, connected to nothing. No oil lamps or gas lights or anything – just fixtures stuck in the walls. There were giant metallic wagon-like things outside, on four wheels that growled when they moved – but sleeker, shining. Not a horse or wagon in sight.

"Dean!" On instinct Daniel turned around, ducking a blow that had been aimed for his head, and he grabbed the fist, twisting it around, and shoved a blade that was serrated on one edge and covered in strange runes into the attacker's stomach. Red light flared up around the creature's eyes and mouth and then it slumped to the floor.

He let it fall, wide-eyed, taking a step back, and raised his eyes then to look on a man who was easily several inches taller than him, with long shaggy hair and a concerned look on his face, broad-shouldered, muscled, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt and leather jacket. There was a knife in one hand – long, thin and silver-looking, triple-edged and it seemed to glow with power.

The man tilted his head, this look in his eyes like he was trying to make sure if Daniel was okay, before he seemed to come to the conclusion that he was, because he turned around and hurried off, through an open door with a lock that looked like it had been shot open. Daniel ran after him, questions burning on the tip of his tongue, and he stopped when he almost ran into the back of the large man, peering around his shoulder to see what he saw.

There was Castiel.

He looked…different.

"They're all inside me." Sounded different too – colder, cooler, as though he had all the time in the world. His very voice trembled with power and it made Daniel shake, made him want to run, but he stayed.

He was in the room.

Well, not him exactly, but a man who looked very much like him; older, perhaps, and more haggard with more muscle on him, but definitely someone who could pass for his brother. "Millions upon millions of souls."

There was another man in the room – older, with a larger waistline and wider eyes, and – Daniel's eyes narrowed in recognition of the fourth and last inhabitant of the room. The suited demon that had trapped them. "Sounds sexy," Crowley said with a raised eyebrow. "Exit stage Crowley."

The room felt freezing, and the man Daniel had followed here was slipping inside, quietly on Hunter's feet. His heart was hammering and his hand was shaking around the knife but he had to step closer too – could read the pain in his lookalike's face, the cool disinterest in Castiel's – or whatever it was that looked like Castiel in this dream. Was this real? Castiel had never told him about this.

"Cas." That name drew the thing's attention, eyes sharp and cold landing on Daniel's lookalike's face. He didn't hear the next words over the rushing blood in his eyes, but he could just catch 'brother' and 'don't make me lose you', and it tore at him. This man…this man had loved Castiel, and watched something horrible happen. There was blood on the Angel's fingertips.

When Castiel smiled, it was cold and awful, and looked like he had more than one set of teeth, white glowing in his eyes. "You are not my family, Dean," he stated with an upward, defiant tilt of his head, and though his wings had not manifested here, Daniel could imagine them arching up high in power and dominion, for strength and violence seemed to seep out of every part of him, coating the air like the stench of blood and ash. "I have no family."

Then, out of nowhere, the man that Daniel had followed came up behind the thing, and stabbed him in the back. Daniel cried out, expecting Castiel to fall, to have been hurt, for the stink of blood to get worse as he watched the Angel he considered a friend crumple to the ground, but Castiel did nothing – gave no indication he even felt it.

His eyes turned to the man, and he sighed, reaching behind himself to yank the blade out. "Angel blades won't work on me, Sam," he said softly, as though scolding a child, and turned around, reaching out to lightly push away the man's hair from his face. Sam – Sam, God – was sweating, now, his face a mask of pain and effort; maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe Castiel was doing something in his head. "I am not an Angel anymore."

"Then what are you?" Dean's voice – rougher than Daniel's own, a growl, low with pain and whiskey and long nights with no rest.

Castiel turned back to Dean, smiling a little in that non-way people do; more with the manic gleam in their eyes than any actual movement on their face. "I'm God," he said, like he was proud, happy, and Daniel could almost hear the 'are you proud of me Dean I did this for you Dean this is for you' rolling inside of Castiel's head, but he had no idea where that was coming from. "I'm the new God."

I was a God once, a long time ago.

"Castiel," Daniel whispered, though he could not possibly be heard here, because this was just a dream. Something inside of him was aching, though – the wrongness, it felt as though he had known Castiel before this, knew that something was going very, very wrong within the Angel. He felt as though Castiel had just reached for him and tried to rip out his own heart, but that that very action was more of a betrayal in itself.

Looking over to Dean, he saw that emotion on the man's face. What must he be feeling, knowing what Castiel told Daniel now…that they had loved, either before or after this – had this been what caused Dean to die? Had Castiel killed Sam and then stayed behind to repent but Dean escaped him?

"What the Hell happened to you?"

No one spoke for a long time after that, as Castiel gazed down on the three humans with the air and power of a God, and Daniel couldn't look away from the creature; strength and awe seemed to just match him, and Daniel knew that if he was in his own mind right now, he would probably be unable to stay on his feet; there was a force about Castiel that desired people to be on their knees, in worship, in prayer to him, and he had no idea where these thoughts were coming from or how he was fighting them back.

He looked away (though barely managed) to find Dean's eyes fixed on him. The man's eyes widened. Somehow he could see Daniel, though how the Hunter had no idea. And Dean's eyes narrowed, fingers twitching by his side in a way that Daniel knew was in search of a gun, and then something felt like it was ripping – snapping in two.

Fire exploded inside of his head, and he woke up with Castiel's name on his lips.

* * *

The Angel was disturbed from his deep meditation by Daniel's sudden cry – "Cas!" – and immediately was on the alert. Had Crowley returned and was back to torture or interrogate them, or had something troubled Daniel in his sleep? Castiel didn't know – he had only ever watched Dean's dreams, and had never thought of sharing something as intimate as the human mind with anyone else.

His eyes focused on Daniel, and he could immediately tell that something was wrong. The Hunter's forehead was glistening with sweat and his breaths were uneven and shaky – one of Daniel's hands had flown to Castiel's knee, gripping tight enough that Castiel could feel his nails through his jeans. His body went tense when Daniel turned to look at him.

His eyes were glowing a color that Castiel had not seen for a very, very long time. That was the color of a dormant soul, unleashed. A soul that shone under Daniel's skin, glaringly bright and almost painfully loving, pure in a way Castiel had never seen since or before.

"…Dean?" he hazarded, his voice a low, hopeful whisper, hardly daring to believe.

And Daniel smiled, this smile that Dean did when he had just come home and dropped his bags and flopped into bed beside his Angel. "Hey, Cas," he said, voice lower, rougher, so close to Dean's original. The Angel couldn't move when Daniel – Dean – leant forward, warm, callused palm smoothing out over his cheek, brushing his dirty hair from his face.

"Dean." Every fiber of Castiel's being flew at Dean's voice, at his soul shining so bright. He wanted to fling himself at the Hunter, bury Dean in his wings, remark and remake him and take him away and keep him safe forever and he had no idea how this was happening – could not move. "I…"

"Shh," Dean whispered, moving his hand to press two fingers against Castiel's mouth. His eyes were so full of love, of adoration, when they focused on his fingers, slowly dragging down to curl around Castiel's chin, raising his head up.

Desperately Castiel tried to answer Dean's soul with his Grace – knew that if they touched, their bond would be reconnected, cemented once again and everything would finally be alright, they'd be together again, and Castiel would never let him go – but blood stained his wings and his feet now and the pool was getting larger, soaking into the room, and his Grace was dull and pulsed lifelessly and he couldn't touch Dean – he was so close and he couldn't touch Dean. He wanted to weep out of helplessness. He wanted to kill – would kill to touch Dean again.

"I miss you," he finally said, making Dean smile, and blink. The soul was dying down – whatever had caused this flare, it wouldn't last long. Already he could see Daniel's body start to deflate, and no doubt the Hunter would return to a peaceful slumber as though nothing had happened. "Dean." Finally, strength returned to his fingers, and he reached forward, clutching weakly at Daniel's coat, desperate to keep hold of Dean, for just a little longer. Please, Father, just a little longer. "Dean, please."

Their kiss was hard, desperate – closed-mouthed but so, so warm, it felt like it was burning Castiel's lips. Dean's soul felt like it was trying to crawl through their skin and into Castiel, held back simply because Castiel couldn't reach out and answer him. One hand flattened over Dean's neck, the other still clutched tightly in his coat as Dean knelt over him, fingers curled into Castiel's hair and still braced on his knee for balance. Castiel clenched his eyes tightly shut, fighting back his traitorous tears. The kiss felt violent and so, so unsatisfying.

"Cas," Dean whispered when they pulled away, green eyes so full of love, and the Angel sobbed.

"I love you, Dean," he replied, stroking a hand through the man's hair before Daniel's body collapsed, limp and unconscious. Dean's soul echoed dully inside of him, tired and spent, and Castiel could still feel the burning kiss on his mouth. "I love you, Dean," he whispered again, before he gently repositioned Daniel so he was leaning back against the wall, and so that they were no longer touching.

"I love you, Dean," he said one last time, and deliberately avoided Sarah's eyes from where she was watching him in the corner of her room. She'd been awake for some time, it seemed, when Daniel's breath finally evened out in sleep.

She pushed herself upright and Castiel went tense, drawing his knees tighter to his chest and curling his wings around himself in defense. She was quiet for a long time, before; "Who's Dean?"

Castiel closed his eyes, sighing heavily. He was so very tired. "It's a long story."

"What does he have to do with Daniel?" she asked, instead of insisting he tell like he thought she would; he opened his eyes again in surprise, looking over to her. She didn't look angry, or jealous, or even upset. Just confused, like she was trying to figure out an intricate, delicate puzzle, and not like Castiel had just kissed her mate. The Angel frowned. "This 'Dean' person?"

Castiel hesitated; what could he tell her? He wanted to come clean about everything – wanted to tell both of them that Daniel housed Dean's soul and Castiel had no idea why and everything about Crowley and Dean and Sam and everything – but he couldn't. Because he didn't know. They would ask questions that he couldn't answer – and it wasn't fair, to either of them. Neither of them had asked to house Dean's soul, or to be trapped by the King of Hell, or even to take an Angel under their wing.

Then again, very rarely were things that ever happened to people around Castiel considered 'fair'.

"Is…is there something in Daniel?"

He blinked over at her, surprised that she would put it together so quickly – perhaps she was more observant than she thought. "Why would you ask something like that?" he asked, partly to stall his answer and partly because he wanted to know.

She shrugged, worrying her lower lip. "He's been different for a while," she said, with a small frown creasing her forehead. "Like he's…I dunno. Nothing like, bad different," she added quickly, holding up a hand to stop Castiel's question. "I tested him for everything. Just…I don't know. Like he's tired, but he refuses to let himself sleep. Just something off, like with your wings."

And Castiel frowned again. "My wings?" he repeated, tilting his head to one side.

"Like I was telling Daniel," she explained, waving her hand vaguely in Castiel's direction, "it's like your wings aren't meant to be there. Like something's forcing them there and they're too…solid. Too real."

He could have almost smiled at her. She wasn't even that wrong – his wings forming enough for the duller human senses to perceive it had been a side-effect of Heaven's power being shut off from him. Most of the Angels had lost their wings when their vessel rebelled, but Castiel, having no soul to expel him, had merely kept them as though they were an extension of his body. It had helped him to blend in once the Mockers had become a recognized race.

He shifted slightly, wincing at the wet, gross feeling of blood against his thigh. The stain was getting larger and larger and Castiel had the vague, hysterical thought that maybe Crowley intended to drown them in it. His Grace felt weak, human, and tired. He wanted to go to sleep. "Dean is my mate," he finally said after a long while, eyes briefly flashing to Daniel as the Hunter slept on, seemingly undisturbed as though nothing had happened. "And his soul appears to have returned. How, why, I have no idea." He couldn't stop his small, tired smile then. "Dean always had a habit of messing up the system."

"Wait, so you're telling me…" She frowned, looking back at the other Hunter. "That there's two of them in there? Or that…or that there was always this 'Dean' of yours, and that he's just waking up or something?"

"I don't know, Sarah," Castiel replied with a loud sigh. "I'm sorry. I wish I could answer, but I simply cannot. I have no answers." That was a possibility that Castiel hadn't considered – that Dean might be inside of someone who had already existed. Perhaps Dean's brightness eclipsed the other soul, or they were so closely related that Castiel had been unable to see the difference with his senses so dulled.

But it would make sense. It would make so much more sense.

Dean had possessed someone.

He turned his head away, blinking out towards the small amount of sunlight visible through the grate dripping with blood. What kind of enchantment had Crowley placed on this damned thing? It made his Grace shiver at the wrongness. "That sucks, Castiel. I'm sorry."

He turned back towards her, not having expected that. "Sorry for what?" he asked.

"That…it just sucks, is all. This." She gestured towards Daniel with a small twist to her mouth. "That you have to just sit here while your mate's stuck inside him, or whatever's happening. That you're stuck here at all. I'm sorry."

"You have no reason to apologize," Castiel replied insistently. "I am the one pining over your lover, after all."

At that, she laughed, her eyes widening as she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to cover up the sound, to avoid waking Daniel. "You think…?" She laughed again, shaking her head in a way that her long hair, ruffled from sleep, fell out around her face. For a brief moment, she reminded Castiel of Joanna Harvelle. "Oh, Angel, Danny and I aren't together like that." It was like she found the idea impossible, but Castiel was just shocked, to find out that he had been tearing himself up over something his own imagination had concocted. The mind could be so cruel. "No, we're friends from when we were younger but, I mean, pretty sure Danny doesn't bat for my team, if you know what I mean."

It took Castiel a moment. "Oh," he murmured, eyes widening slightly. Oh. Oh, Father. The Angel curled his wings a little more tightly to himself, fingers scratching down the insides of his elbows as he folded his arms over his chest. That would explain, perhaps, why Dean's dormant soul had blinded him to the rest of Daniel; perhaps the man had simply been looking at Castiel like that as himself, and not as Dean. Maybe Castiel had just assumed it was his mate's soul guiding Daniel's eye to his wings, or to his mouth or his hands when he thought Castiel couldn't see him.

"I just thought he was getting a thing for you," she continued with a small shrug. "But I guess the whole soulmate-possession makes more sense."

"You're awfully calm about this," Castiel replied, raising an eyebrow in her direction. How could she be? Castiel felt like the ground was shaking underneath him; everything had just become so much more complicated, and less at the same time. He needed time to think but he was getting a headache from the scent of blood and he couldn't concentrate and his Grace was glowing so dully and everything was happening way too fast. Until last week Dean had been dead.

"Someone has to be," Sarah said, before she suddenly went still, raising her head and frowning out towards the door. "Do you hear something?" she asked, brows furrowing in concentration, head cocked to one side to listen. Castiel joined her, but he could hear nothing aside from his own breathing and Daniel's, beside him.

Tiredly, lethargic, he shoved himself to his feet, stumbling when his tired limbs protested the sudden moment after riding for so long and so hard, and then just sitting and letting them seize, become tight. He managed to walk over to the iron door, curling his fingers around the bloody bars – it made his nose wrinkle, the scent of Mocker blood, made his very being rile against the death of something so innocent, something that he had created and loved and nurtured and protected. The door may as well be covered in the blood of humans for as much as it sickened him.

He peered outside, and could see nothing aside from the clearing that surrounded the building, a road stretching out to his left, hollowed out shells of Chicago still around him. He could not see or hear the horses, nor could he detect any signs of life.

Then, he heard a soft but weirdly familiar whuffing sound, and tilted his head down to see the bright yellow fur of the dog he had found on the road. The animal was sitting outside of what appeared to be a ring of blood, sigils drawn around the door and Castiel had to assume that was what was spelling the door shut.

The dog was looking between the sigils on the ground, sniffing at them curiously, and then it looked back up, barking again, tail wagging. Castiel curled his fingers tighter around the bars, watching the animal. It was a Hunter's dog – it had to know what the sigils on the ground were meant to mean, or at least to stay away from whatever was trapped inside. Castiel tried to push out with his Grace, but the blood blocked him and he could not.

"What is it?" came Sarah's voice, and the dog tilted its head to one side, ears perking up as it looked around Castiel, deliberately not stepping on the circle of blood.

"There is a Hunter's dog outside," Castiel said. "I think it is trying to figure out if it should let us go or not."

"A dog?" Then he heard shuffling, Sarah shoving herself to her feet and joining Castiel by the door. "Well, I'll be damned," she huffed, sounding amused, and crouched down so that she could see the dog at eye-level. The animal barked at her, tail wagging slightly again. The dog's was panting hard, and Castiel had to wonder if it had chased him all the way here, followed his scent perhaps, and why on Earth it might have done that – what misguided loyalty did this dog have for him that had made him run so fast, and so long, to find him?

And then he realized that, as an Angel guilty of the same crime, it was a stupid question to ask.

Castiel's attention was drawn when Sarah whistled lowly at the dog, keeping her hands inside of the iron door, and the dog's ears perked up again at the sound, taking a step forward. She whistled again – this time something short and sharp – and the dog barked, licking at its muzzle. She frowned, cocking her head to one side, and knelt closer, repeating the sound. It sounded like a sports whistle used when the world wasn't made of ice.

The dog looked down at the sigil of blood, then back at Sarah who had yet to move or make another sound, and then with another bark it went down and dug at the edges of the sigil, breaking the circle of blood. Almost immediately, the door was dry of Mocker blood and Castiel felt his Grace explode against his skin, finally free of the blood's taint. With a touch he was able to shatter the locks on the door and swing it open.

"How did you know to do that?" he asked her, pushing the door open and laying a hand on the excited animal, which had begun to bark again. He didn't need it drawing attention to them, and it quieted under his touch.

"All Hunter's animals are trained the same way," she replied with a shrug, going back inside to gather her coat and the weapons that had been left with her. She hesitated on touching Daniel. "Do you…want to wake him up?"

Castiel pressed his lips together, looking to the man; he knew why she was asking him this, and he didn't reply before stepping back inside, gently touching his fingertips to Daniel's shoulder.

The man woke with a start. "The door is open," Castiel said shortly, once he had seen no spark of Dean in Daniel's eyes. The man nodded, licking his dry lips and wiping a hand over his face, undoubtedly still tired. "Come. Hopefully the horses are still nearby."

And he left them, confident that they would be alright getting out of the room – he could neither see nor sense Crowley nearby, and when he cast his Grace out, glad that he finally could, he was able to sense the horses right where he had left them, calmly, patiently waiting. He went and gathered them, leading them back to the door in time for Sarah and Daniel to climb out of the room, and he handed them the reins.

"Shit, Cas," Daniel said with wide eyes when he took in the sweat and dirt coating the horses' sides, and in the light Castiel's own exhaustion and the stain of the road was more obvious. "I would have thought you'd flown here."

"I had no idea what had happened to you," Castiel replied, handing the reins over to the Hunter. "Or if I would need weapons, or how long of a journey it would have been. The horses were slow, but I managed to find you. That is all that matters."

Sarah pressed her lips together, saying nothing, and Castiel had to wonder if maybe her new reticence came from understanding; she knew now, just as much as Castiel did, and he hoped that would make her more accepting of him. It was a difficult situation that they were both in now and he hoped that perhaps they would be a little less uncomfortable around each other.

It reminded him of when Sam and Dean had finally started to confide in him. To trust him. Before everything started to go wrong.

He started, pulled out of his thoughts by a soft, warm head pressing itself into his hand, and looked down to find the dog nuzzling at him, tail wagging against the dusty ground, and unbidden he smiled slightly, petting the animal when it whined and looked up at him with intelligent brown eyes.

"So…what now?"

Castiel sighed – Crowley's words troubled him more than he would care to admit, but with his Grace so dull and his vessel exhausted, he knew he didn't have the strength to Hunt the demon down himself, and he wouldn't dare leave Sarah and Daniel exposed like that again. "We hunt the rugaru," he said, rolling his shoulders, wings arching up in determination at his decision. "Crowley is a snake covered in oil – we will never be able to keep a hold of him and most knowledge on demon kind has been lost. I doubt I would be able to summon him back with any ingredients necessary anymore, and the death toll is probably far too high from the rugaru now, even without our delay." Daniel and Sarah were nodding in agreement. "So we go for that Hunt. If Crowley wants to show his face again, let him try, but we'll be ready."

* * *

That night, they had chosen to stay in one of the houses still standing on the outskirts of Chicago. The horses needed rest, as Castiel had ridden them far harder than they were used to, and they needed food and so they were free to graze on any grain or grass they could find – and they would find it. Daniel assured Castiel that they were a resourceful animal.

Castiel managed to find and kill a rabbit, which he fed to the dog while Daniel and Sarah ate their dried meals that were in their packs, and Castiel, of course, ate nothing. The Angel instead busied himself trying to clean his wings which, over the course of the past few days since he had cleaned them, had managed to gather an impressive layer of dust, mud and blood in the feathers, caking together and sticking and making him very uncomfortable.

So much so that he had had to forsake the human t-shirt he had worn for so long, exposing his skin to the elements, because without it he could stretch just that little bit further, though it was still a pain and he couldn't reach it all. It was a painstaking procedure.

Daniel was watching him. "Do you need some help?" he asked after a while of watching the Angel's face twist in discomfort, Castiel's wings bent tight to his back to try and get at all the dirt caked into his wings.

The Angel froze, eyes widening at the suggestion. On the one hand, yes, yes he desperately needed help because there was this clump at the base of each wing that he just could not reach for the life of him – but on the other. Daniel – Dean – touching his wings? He didn't need to be a psychic to know that that was a bad idea. A horrible, horrible idea.

His Grace ached with longing.

Castiel looked to Sarah, who had stopped eating and was looking between the two of them with an expression that gave nothing away. Daniel's eyes were too dark to read on the other side of the fire, and Castiel reluctantly let his wings spread out and fall to either side of him. "Yes, please," he said, voice sounding small and nervous as he wiped his oil-stained hands on his thighs.

Daniel nodded, shoving himself to his feet and walking over to Castiel, crouching down behind the Angel. Sarah's eyes watched, still unreadable and Castiel met her gaze, nervous. But anticipation flared inside of him as well. Dean had made no secret of loving Castiel's wings, and maybe their touch – the closest thing to Grace that Dean could touch – would reawaken the soul and allow Castiel to speak to him again.

"Whereabouts does…?" Daniel's voice came, a little unsure, and Castiel closed his eyes, spreading his wings out for Daniel to see. Another Angel or a Mocker or Dean would recognize the gesture for what it was; baring his wings for his mate, a gesture of desire and submission, but Daniel couldn't possibly know, and neither could Sarah, and Castiel's secret was safe.

"I cannot reach most of the feathers near my spine," he said, fingers clenching into fists. "You need to try and coat them in my oil, and the dirt will clump up and become easier to pick out."

Daniel nodded. "Right," he said, eyes tracking down over Castiel's back as he licked his lips, and the Angel tensed when he felt the first warm touch of Daniel's hand against his wing. He sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes and letting himself relax into the touch. Daniel let his hand sink into the thick, warm feathers of Castiel's wings, as though he was washing an animal or running his fingers through someone's hair – the Angel's wings were that soft and thick as to be human hair, and he could feel the small nodes of dust and dirt in the feathers. He sought out the oil; remembered reading something about Mockers having glands at the base of their wings to help clean their wings out, and he combed through the feathers, seeking the small gland because Castiel's wings, though not dry, didn't seem to shine with their usual luster and they needed more oil.

Castiel was trembling – it felt so good, so warm and safe and the Angel felt like he could weep. Every touch was Dean, stroking along his spine, warm hands curling around his flanks, soft kisses to his neck and jaw and mouth. It felt like Dean was touching him, cleaning his wings, running a hand through his hair, bracketing Castiel's body with his legs as the Angel rocked against him.

"Dean," he gasped out, the name escaping him before he could stop himself, and his eyes flew open, realizing what he'd said. Sarah was watching him, shock on her face, her eyes wide too in fear that Daniel might have heard.

But there was just warm laughter behind him, a smile pressed against the back of his head. "Relax, Angel," Dean whispered, kissing at the soft, warm skin behind Castiel's ear. "I'm here."

"Dean." It was Dean, but Castiel didn't dare look behind himself to see. He closed his eyes again – this must all just be some dream, and he was still stuck somewhere letting his Grace fade away while the Mocker blood surrounded him. But the pull in his wings didn't stop; they ceased their halting, almost tentative touches and instead Dean's fingers buried deep, sought out Castiel's oil glands with practiced ease like he knew exactly where to touch, exactly where each knot on Castiel's back would form, and which parts of his wings were the most tired, in need of the most care.

Dean tutted softly in disappointment. "Cas, you haven't been taking very good care of yourself, have you?"

"I'm sorry," Castiel whispered in reply, opening his eyes again, staring out across the fire. He couldn't move – daren't move, in case this illusion shattered and it was all in his head. "Dean, I'm so sorry." For everything – for not following behind fast enough, for leaving you, for never looking. Dean, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Dean, please.

"Shh," Dean whispered, pressing another kiss to the back of Castiel's neck, making the Angel sob, and Castiel hid his mouth behind the back of his hand to hide the sound. "It's okay, Cas, you got nothin' to be sorry for." One more kiss, to Castiel's neck, making the Angel tilt his head to allow Dean room. "But I miss you, Angel."

Castiel could say nothing to that, and Dean pulled back, and it felt like the frigid Earth was finally digging her claws into Castiel's skin; cold that had never affected him before had him shivering.

"I…think I got the last of it." Daniel's voice cut Castiel like a blade, and the Angel nodded, pressing his lips together and drawing his wings in tight from where he had spread them out – he realized at Dean's presence he had tilted his wings up, wrapping them back around his mate, and now he drew them close to his sides, shutting off the sensitive underside of them.

"Thank you, Daniel," he replied, voice hoarse, and when he wiped at his mouth he was mildly surprised to find wetness on his face, salty and burning at his eyes. "I appreciate it, thank you."

A hand clapped itself onto his shoulder as Daniel pushed himself upright. "No problem, Cas," he said, stifling a yawn behind his hand. "I'm beat. Make sure to bank the fire when you guys are done eating," he added, heading back to the other side of the camp where his sleeping roll lay, and he quickly slid inside, still fully clothed, and wrestled the blankets back around himself.

Sarah looked over at Castiel, eyes wide with disbelief. "Why does that keep happening?" she asked once she was sure that Daniel was asleep.

"I…don't know," Castiel replied, frustrated with his helplessness, his lack of knowledge. Once he had known everything there was to know, and now where was he – stuck on a frozen, abandoned planet and pining after the trapped soul of his mate. Life had made him so bitter. He ran his hands through his hair, blowing out a frustrated breath, and reached forward to try and maneuver the shirt back over his wings. "I have no answers, and it's killing me. Dean is…" He took another deep, shuddering breath, closing his eyes and taking a moment to be still. "We just have to stay focused on the Hunt. Everything else can wait until later."

Sarah raised an eyebrow at that. "Who would ever think that way?"

"Dean would."

* * *

That night, and the nights following, Daniel dreamed.

He was running.

And Dean was chasing him.

Through some dark, seemingly endless wood, he was running, as fast and as far as he could to try and get away, but it seemed that no matter how hard he pushed himself, how fast he ran, that Dean was always around the corner, always one step behind him, this grim and set look on his face like he was going to run Daniel into the ground if it killed him.

When Dean finally caught up, it was while Daniel had stopped by a riverbed, desperately cupping water into his mouth to try and sate his dry, burning thirst, and suddenly the other man was on him, face dirty and streaked with mud, mouth a thin line, and a blade made from one long, sharp rock was pressed against Daniel's throat, handle made of wood and bone and Dean was straddling him, holding him down with ease.

"Who are you?" Dean snarled at him, voice almost inhuman, this darkness in his eyes like he wouldn't think twice about killing Daniel and would have absolutely zero regrets after. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm…I'm…" And Daniel had no answer to that – because he knew that Dean didn't want his name. Didn't give a fuck about that. He wanted to know why Daniel had been in that warehouse, why he looked so much like Dean, what the fuck was he doing in…in where? Where was he? "I'm a friend of Castiel's!"

At that, Dean's expression shifted – the glare melted away into narrow-eyed suspicion, and the blade, though still present, didn't press quite so hard. "Oh, yeah?" Dean hissed, cocking his head to one side, baring his teeth in challenge. "Where's the Angel?"

"I don't…I don't know!" Daniel replied, because he didn't. He didn't know where the Hell anything was anymore. Dean's mouth twisted, not liking the answer. "I can take you to him though! I can, I promise." His hands wrapped around the blade, trying to fight it off, but Dean's grip was strong and unwavering; he'd taken down bigger shit than humans before, with ease, Daniel knew. Realized it when he saw the look in the man's eyes. "I can take you to him."

The other man tilted his head to one side, eyes cold and calculating. "You know what, sweetheart?" he asked, smiling wide and charming. "I don't believe you."

Daniel woke up in a cold sweat, grasping desperately at the remnants of the dream as he tried to remember what had woken him up. But as soon as he opened his eyes, the images would fade away into nothingness until he could not remember what had woken him up. But the Angel would be watching him with this wide-eyed, wary look on his face, and Daniel had to wonder just what he might be saying in his sleep.

* * *

Castiel had never been so relieved to leave a city behind – Chicago had few inhabitants that he imagined could survive there, and those that could have had to be cruel and savage to manage it. And it had been the place to harbor Death, and it felt too cold here. Ice still had her bony fingers set deep into the Earth this far North, and as they traveled south and further West, though the ice faded, the wind picked up, sending a strong gust that seemed to chill his Hunters to their very bones. The horses shivered along with their riders and at times the wind was so bad that Castiel himself had to land or ride with Daniel.

It made the going slow, but Castiel was determined to press onward – he warmed their bodies at night with his Grace and his wings, and spared enough Grace to keep the horses alive and strong. It was the least he could do and in that moment it felt like all he could do.

In the cold and the wind, Dean's soul had retreated down to almost nothing, as though it was trying to curl into a ball to keep warm. It worried Castiel, but he knew Dean was strong and if there was anyone who could survive such harsh terrain as this, it would be him.

After all, he had traveled a bit and knew about vast, deadly lands.

Finally, finally, he could spy a town in the distance into their third week of travel, where they would find shelter whenever and wherever they could. The wind was blowing them steadily backwards, enough that the horses had to keep their heads down and soldier on as though they were climbing a mighty hill, and the dog needed their bodies to stop it blowing away.

Along with the town, he could see sunlight, a break in the storms almost directly over it, and it made him hesitate – pull on Daniel's jacket until the man forced them to stop, their backs to the wind. "What is it, Cas?" he all but yelled over the high-pitched screech of the weather, and Castiel's feathers bristled; something was wrong. Something felt wrong.

"I don't…" The Angel stopped. He had no answer that he could give that would be worth denying Daniel and Sarah and the animals some much-needed reprieve. "Just…tread carefully, Daniel. Something feels weird about this."

"About a town?" Daniel asked and even shouting Castiel could hear the disbelief in his tone, but they obeyed anyway, guns cocked and drawn and resting against their horses' shoulders.

As soon as they crossed the border into the town, the wind dropped leaving an almost too-hot, humid climate behind. In the distance, tall buildings rose up and shimmered as though in a haze. Sunlight beat down as though it had a vendetta against the town, and though Castiel knew such high winds would have caused damage, the area looked pristine, as though it was a beautiful summer's day. None of the houses had fallen into disrepair; green was everywhere, on the lawns, the trees, and Castiel could hear birds singing.

Something was very wrong. Towns like this didn't exist anymore.

Carefully he dismounted the big black mare, wings unfurling slowly as he cast his eyes around, trying to take in all of the surroundings. The dog whuffed softly by his side, pressing up against the Angel's thigh and Castiel reached down to touch a hand to the top of his head, shushing him quietly. His fingers twitched with the desire to summon his Angel blade, but he could not justify using that much Grace when there was no visible threat.

"Where the Hell are we?" Sarah whispered in the almost too-quiet place, dismounting her own horse as Daniel followed suit, and Castiel wanted to tell them to get back on, to turn around and run as fast as they could; there was an inherent wrongness to this place, coloring the shadows a darker grey and making the sun obscenely bright. It was too perfect as though someone had painted this onto a canvas, some idyllic shining Paradise.

Castiel blinked, straightening a little.

"We're in Lawrence," he whispered, eyes widening, and he looked back to Daniel and Sarah, hoping to see some spark of recognition in them, but Dean's soul didn't even pulse – it was still too cold, thawing. "This is where Dean was born."

He turned back around, looking at the scene once more. It was all so wrong. Too perfect. "This is where everything started."

"Where what started?" Sarah asked, though he suspected she already knew.

Castiel smiled. "Dean and Sam Winchester…the New World…this is even where Aiden was born." He looked back to them again, smiling a little, but their faces were blank with incomprehension. "Aiden is the First, the first Mocker that ever existed." He sighed, looking back out again, wings shrugging. "I helped raise him myself."

"Cas," Daniel murmured, stepping forward and placing a hand on the Angel's shoulder. "Castiel, look at me," and the Angel did, surprised to find him standing so close, his chest almost pressed right against the Angel's arm. "Lawrence is the place where all the killings have been happening," the Hunter said, his voice low and very serious. "This place is damned."

The Angel blinked, eyes widening at that new information, before he frowned, pulling away from Daniel. "I could have told you that," he muttered to the Hunters. "But we're here now, and this place is either obviously spelled, or just happens to be in the perfect place to escape the storm." He paused again, looking at one of the houses that began the street. It looked normal; pristine and new and like nothing had ever touched it, be it human or demon or nature herself. "I need to place wards on you, to protect you. Who knows what we might find when we go further in."

"What -?" Daniel and Sarah were both cut off as Castiel reached forward and touched them both in the center of their chests, releasing twin grunts of pain as the Angel carved the same warding sigils on them that had had placed on Sam and Dean – slightly altered, of course, so that they weren't so much protected from Angels as from anything else. It wasn't Angels he feared. "What the Hell did you just do?"

"I carved sigils of protection onto your ribs," Castiel replied dryly, almost smiling – Dean had given him that exact same look. Times hardly changed, did they? Inside of Daniel, Castiel could see Dean's soul piqued in interest, investigating the touch of Angel Grace now seared into Daniel's body, and Castiel knew that if it had been any other Angel's Grace, Dean may have very well rejected it.

The bond was very strong.

"Sigils of…"

"Get on the horses," Castiel said, wings fanning the air as he readied himself for whatever ghosts might be haunting this place – dread was curling up in the base of his spine, barbed and prickling and he knew that whatever he found in this place would likely be very unpleasant. "If you need to run, then run. I'll find you two again."

"Cas, what do you think's going to happen?" Sarah asked, concern in her voice and hidden meaning in her eyes. People only talked like that when they didn't expect to come back.

The Angel sighed and started walking. "Hopefully, nothing."


	6. The Fall

The farther in they trekked, however, Castiel knew something was wrong. There was a dreadful feeling pressing down on his skull, and birds had stopped singing around them, casting the place into an eerie silence broken only by the clopping of hooves on the perfectly-maintained roads, and the creak of leather harnesses. The dog padded by Castiel's side, ears up and alert, and Castiel had time to think that if the animal was on guard then he should be too.

He cast his senses outward, hoping for some kind of clue as to what the Hell was happening in here, when suddenly the dog took off, running and barking up a storm. The gelding gave a startled whinny, head flying up and almost knocking Sarah off balance – only her quick reflexes saved her from being tossed by the horse.

"What the Hell?" Daniel demanded, and Castiel could already see him digging his heels into the mare's flanks, ready to chase the animal and Castiel threw a hand out, halting the animal with his Grace so that she could not run. "Cas, come on!"

"You'd just go charging off after a dog?" the Angel demanded, slowly releasing his hold on the horse when he was sure she would not run; she fixed one large, baleful eye on him, snorting loudly, fidgeting with her front legs. "We approach slowly. The animal will alert us if it has found something."

Daniel's mouth thinned out in a line, his fingers curling around the reins, but he nodded, once, and Castiel led the way once more down the road. There were no people, no animals around that Castiel could see or sense, and no wind – a chime hung in one of the front doors, still and silent. There was no wind and almost oppressive sun, making sweat gather in the back of his neck, and made his wings rustle in distress.

A loud barking startled Castiel and he turned his head, found the dog standing in front of one of the yards, tail wagging violently, barking loud and repeatedly even after Castiel looked towards it, wings flared in recognition. "Come on," he said, changing course to the animal and casting his Grace out to make sure they were well and truly alone.

The dog led him around to the backyard, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

"Father in Heaven."

Mockers. There were at least half a dozen of them, and in this backyard the green grass was smeared with red blood and what looked like black pus or ectoplasm, oozing from their open mouths and staring eyes. Deep lashes covered what skin he could see and had ripped apart their clothes, and their wings had been slashed open and large pools of blood surrounded them, soaking into the Earth, blackening the grass.

That was why Castiel's Grace had not sensed them; the blood. Now, looking at them, he could smell it – sick, coating the air and the back of his throat like sour honey, he gazed upon them, pressing a hand to his mouth to stop another curse escaping.

These Mockers, his children. Something had done this to them. The same thing that had killed Matthew, and Castiel suspected, his owner. Something very dark and very evil had managed to slay these creatures and Castiel's stomach was rolling with nausea.

He gave no indication of having heard Daniel and Sarah's approach, until suddenly the Hunters were eclipsing his peripheral vision, and he flinched from them, expecting it to be the thing that had slain these creatures. He took a deep breath, rubbing his hand over his mouth, over his eyes, trying to wipe away the sight of it – unbidden, visions of when he was a God flashed in his mind, of slaying Angels and searing their blackened wings against what had been the most perfect Heaven, his favorite Heaven. This scene was rank with familiarity, as though someone had tried to copy him, had seen what he had done and tried to recreate it. It was sickening, stank of death and blood and it made him want to turn and fly far, far away.

"Cas." The voice brought him back to the present, and he dared to open his eyes, to where Sarah was kneeling over the body of a young male Mocker, his wings golden-brown to match the honey-blonde of his hair, flecks of blood and dirt in both. He was lying on his stomach, what appeared to be a kitchen knife clenched tight in one hand in defense, and his back had been laid open by something – something vicious with claws and teeth marks were etched into the back of his neck. The dog was nosing at the body, whining softly, and Sarah gently took the young Mocker's shoulder and rolled him over onto his front.

Lashes coated his face, red lines of old, dry blood and scars, and his eyes were wide open and staring, a very light green – almost grey. Castiel took a step forward, amazed when, against all odds, it looked like the young Mocker was still breathing – shallowly, shakily, but there. His chest was rising and falling sporadically, his lips were chapped and his eyelids weren't moving.

He was likely starving – would die without food, but he could be saved. Maybe.

The Angel knelt down, brushing back the young male's short hair, and closed his eyes. His blood was still too potent and Castiel knew he would not be able to heal the thing by Grace alone; his power pressed against his skin and stopped there as though it had hit a barrier it could not cross.

The dog whined softly by his side, nosing at Castiel's hand and licking at the Mocker's face. Castiel set another hand on the back of the dog's neck, hand tightening in its fur.

"May I?" he asked of the animal, not expecting an answer, but all he got was a small wagging of the dog's tail. Sam had always liked dogs. Said they were born with the kindness humans already had, so they were just better. Better than humans, lacking in Original Sin. "Thank you, my friend."

He leaned down, stroking the dog's head with both hands as he placed a kiss to the top of its head, before closing its eyes, and he snapped its neck with one short, sharp twist of his hands. The animal went limp in his arms and he swallowed, taking the knife from the Mocker's hands and running it across the animal's throat.

"It was taken with permission," he whispered into the young Mocker's ear, hoping the male could hear him. "Drink, my son."

And he pushed the youth's mouth open, cupping the growing pool of blood in his hands and letting it drip into the male's open mouth, his other hand rubbing his throat to help him swallow, until it seemed like he was, somehow, doing it on his own. Fingers twitched weakly by Castiel's thigh, rising up slowly to take hold of the animal and Castiel pushed the dog against the Mocker's mouth, bracing him upright with Sarah's help so that he could drink, until those eyelids fluttered over pale eyes and closed tight, and a broken, sated moan left the creature. Castiel could have cried when he felt the young Mocker clutch more tightly at the dog's body, life leaving the animal but soaking into the Mocker's skin, and Castiel watched as the cuts started to seal closed, leaving only old dry blood smears behind and scars, and his wings were knitting themselves back together tightly, whole and unbroken with only bent and missing feathers to mark anything that had happened.

Castiel soothed the trembling young Mocker, petting his dirty, sweaty hair back from his face and resting his jaw against the top of the youth's head, his wings wrapping tight around him to keep him warm. "Good, young one, that's good," he whispered, encouraging as he watched color return to the Mocker's skin and could hear the rapid, recovering beating of his heart and how his breaths were getting stronger. "You're doing so well."

The Mocker gave a soft, broken sound in response, pressing his mouth against the dog's slit throat more tightly, gripping in its fur until his fingers were white and there was no more blood left to take. Castiel caught the animal when it fell from between his limp fingers, eyes wide and staring at the animal he had just drank from.

"I…"

"Hush, child," Castiel soothed, still holding the Mocker close to him, wing flattening over his body to shield him from sight and from the oppressive sun. "You are safe here."

"Who…who are you?" The words came out raspy and weak, the Mocker pressing his hands to his face to try and wipe the blood away, but he merely ended up smearing it all over his mouth, and Castiel shushed him again, kneeling back so that they could see each other and so that he would feel less threatened. The Mocker's eyes widened upon seeing his face. "…Castiel?"

The Angel's brows furrowed. "You know me?" he asked, tilting his head to one side. He didn't expect that, at all. It just added another layer to the wrongness coating this place. The Mocker nodded, and there was this huge smile on his face, baring his blood-lined teeth, joy and fear shining equally in his eyes. "How do you know me, young one?"

"You're…Castiel," the Mocker whispered, clutching at the Angel's arm as though afraid he might fly away or disappear. There were tears forming in the corners of the Mocker's eyes. "I knew it. I knew you were real, that you would come."

"Knew…young one, what are you talking about? What is your name?" Castiel asked, deciding to start small – perhaps being so close to death had confused the young creature. It could have happened, and Castiel spared a moment to wonder where he had come from, where his owner was, what gross violation of nature had caused his attempted murder and the slaughter of his brethren. "Tell me," he coaxed, brushing his hand down the side of the creature's face.

"My…my name is Eric," the Mocker replied, finally looking away from Castiel's eyes, raking down the Angel and then back up, still smiling so wide like Castiel was a lost friend that he had recently met again. "And I knew you would come back for us. That you hadn't abandoned us."

Abandoned them? Why on Earth would… Castiel frowned again, not knowing what to say to that, and looked to Daniel and Sarah for answers, but they seemed just as confused, and nervous, standing around the bodies of the slain Mockers. Castiel's mouth twisted in remembered anger, his wings flexing, and he turned back to the Mocker – Eric.

"Eric," he whispered, taking hold of the young one's shoulder, drawing his attention. "What happened here? Did you know these Mockers?" The young Mocker's grey-green eyes flickered around them, darkening when he saw the bodies of those slain around him. He pressed a hand to his throat, swallowing loudly enough that Castiel could hear a click.

He held up the dirty kitchen blade that Eric had been holding. "What were you fighting?"

"We…we were running," Eric replied, his voice sounding so small and sad and he was so young – Castiel's Grace ached to wrap around the young creature and soothe him as he would have soothed a frightened fledgling in Heaven, but they were not in Heaven and Castiel had no power here. "We were trying to get away. Something wasn't right with him. Something was…something was happening."

"What, Eric, what did you sense?" Castiel urged, a prickling feeling growing in the base of his spine, rising up enough that his wings were twitching with impatience and anxiety. Somehow, in some way, he could not shake the growing feeling that something knew they were here, and was coming for them. The more time they wasted in this place, the more vulnerable they were. "Have people been coming here? These people with me –" He gestured to Sarah and Daniel and Eric's eyes followed the motion. "are Hunters, and they are here because people were dying. Have people been dying?"

"They…it was without permission. You always told us to ask for permission first."

The young Mocker was obviously still stuck in whatever thoughts were running through his mind at that moment – something dark that was frightening him, making his wings shake and his voice tremble. Castiel, feeling helpless, looked towards Daniel and Sarah again, hoping that they might be able to lend some insight or know of some way to handle the situation better than Castiel – it had been a long time since he'd been around people. His skills were a little rusty.

"We still have some of the blood," Daniel murmured after a moment, nudging his toe against Sarah's thigh. "When we thought Cas was a Mocker. Maybe he's still hungry."

The Angel nodded eagerly – yes, yes that sounded logical. "I shall go retrieve it," he said, standing. "Please, watch him."

"You shouldn't go alone, Cas," Daniel said, shoulders tense and he wasn't looking away from the lax, blinking Mocker. Almost as though he didn't trust him or something, and the idea was absurd to Castiel – that a Mocker would strike out…no. Whatever had happened to these creatures, it couldn't be one of their own. Castiel refused to believe it.

But dread stirred in his gut again, and he tightened his fingers into fists, the familiar itch of desire to summon his blade making his arm tingle and his wings rise up.

He stood. "Come, then," he murmured, looking down to Sarah. "Please, make sure he doesn't try and strain himself."

Sarah nodded, pressing her lips together, her hand resting on the Mocker's blood-caked forehead, combing some of the drying flakes away from his skin. He still looked kind of out of it, pupils wide and eyes unfocused, mouth open, breathing hard. His lips were moving but Castiel could not read what he was trying to say.

Daniel followed Castiel out to the road where they had left the horses, and the mare snorted loudly in greeting, lowering her head to the press of Castiel's hand. "Where have you kept it?" he asked, casting out a wary eye to make sure they were not being watched. The feeling refused to leave him, though, and he felt too exposed and too open out in the middle of the street. His fingers curled around the leather of the mare's reins on reflex, forcing himself to stay grounded.

"With the gelding," the Hunter replied, stepping around Castiel to dig through the saddlebags on the other horse. The gelding's ears were twitching, head raised high and looking somewhere that was not towards the green grass or the people surrounding him.

The ball of dread curled a little tighter, and Castiel turned around to follow the horse's gaze.

There was a Mocker crouched low on the roof of one of the houses, its large golden wings flared out but pressed low to avoid casting a shadow from the oppressive sun. It was a female, with long red hair that matched the crimson accents in her wings, and her eyes glowed a feral green. As Castiel watched, when Daniel pulled out the IV bags of blood, her upper lip curled back and her shoulders went tense.

"Daniel," Castiel murmured, wings already flaring out in aggression, Grace pulsing and he moved, stepping between the supposedly hungry Mocker and his Hunter. "Go back to the garden. Now." He could feel Daniel's gaze on the side of his face, and knew the instant that the Hunter had turned to see the Mocker, because she hissed, wings shifting closer to her body, knees bending under her, preparing to pounce. "Daniel, go!"

She shrieked when the Hunter made a run for it, and Castiel leapt forward to meet her. She was also a young one, not much older than Eric and perhaps twenty by human appearances, and far too slender to be healthy – Castiel could feel her fine bones under his hands when he caught her, twisted her arm behind her back and caught her legs between his own, so that they could both go rolling and he managed to pin her down with a hand to the back of her neck, his other wrapped around both her wrists as he straddled her thighs, pressing her down on her front against the pristine concrete road.

She hissed, shrieking again, and Castiel's mouth twisted when she tried to buffet him with her wings – they were still small, much smaller than his, and lighter as suited her breed; more for quick flights than fighting.

His heavier, soldier's wings easily covered hers, forcing them back down, but still she did not stop struggling. His hand tightened on the back of her neck, fingers digging into the pulse point that had always been so effective on humans but she still fought back, her nails and fingers twisting and digging sharply into Castiel's own wrists.

"Stop," he grit out, Grace burning with the desire to smite something that had threatened his Hunter, had threatened Dean, but he forced himself to rein his Grace in because she was young and probably mad from hunger and that didn't mean she deserved to die. She merely shrieked at him – louder, piercing, sure to call attention to the both of them and they couldn't afford that.

He pressed his lips together, swallowing, as he knew what he must do. Mockers were baser, less evolved than Angels or humans. They still submitted and reacted to primal, instinctual things like dominance displays and threats.

Castiel cast his eyes to Heaven, briefly, glaring at the too-bright sun, before he took a deep breath and moved his hand from the back of her neck, only for long enough that he could lean down and sink his teeth into the soft, vulnerable skin.

It gave way easily under his bite, flooding his mouth with her blood, which stung and felt like he had tried to swallow Listerine (which Dean had made him try after sampling garlic bread. Delightfully awful invention, in his opinion). He knew Mocker blood would have had to react negatively with him, and his mouth felt like it was burning, his Grace reacting violently with her blood and he felt the urge to gag, sick with her blood and sick at himself for having to resort to something so base and violent and uncivilized as this.

Stop, he thought at her, though he knew she could not hear, his fingers tightening more on her wrists when she finally went still, lax, her wings pressing tight to the ground underneath his. Finally. He could have sobbed in relief, for he hadn't wanted to hurt her, disgusted that he had had to resort to this and, slowly, he released her wrists and raised his wings from hers, allowing her to scurry out from underneath him so that they were both crouching on the road.

Her eyes were wide, skin pale and wings pressed tight to her back in defense, kept low but tilted upwards at the back in a gesture of submission, and if Castiel didn't know better, an invitation to mate. But no, he must have been reading it wrong, because no Mocker or Angel with such fear in their eyes would allow themselves to be mounted.

Of course not.

He waited, until she had relaxed slightly, trying to keep his posture as open and relaxed as possible when all he could think about was the fact that, now, after their scuffle, blood lined his mouth that was still burning him and she was now between him and where his Hunters were. "Are you hungry?" he asked her after a moment and, with large, wary eyes, she nodded, licking her dry and chapped lips.

He nodded, and stood, and she followed suit. She was actually taller than Castiel, he noted now that he could see her better, but she walked with her head lowered so that she did not appear to be taller. Her wings were tucked in tight – unthreatening and unassuming, even though they were pretty and she should be proud of them. She was very thin, and Castiel feared that, perhaps if she had stepped outside this town into the storm that lay around it, she might simply blow away.

She refused to move until he did, and kept her eyes down. "Come," he said, holding out his hand to her, but she flinched away from the touch with a soft, scared sound. Another wave of disgust washed over Castiel – he had done that. He had hurt her, and now she was afraid of him. Father, he never wanted any of his children to fear him. He wanted to be feared by no one.

He made a low sound to her, enough to catch her attention – though she didn't raise her eyes, her wings shifted in attention and readiness – and he walked back towards the gelding, digging through the saddlebag that still lay open and disturbed, and managed to find another bag of blood that Daniel had not collected. He held it out to her, and her fingers curled into fists tightly by her side – he could see every line of her burn with want, but she would not take it.

He frowned, stepping closer and holding the bag out to her. "Young one, drink," he insisted, worried for her – she was so pale and even their brief spat seemed to have weakened her. Her hands were shaking and when she dared to glance at him under her fringe of unruly hair; her eyes were wide and hopeful. "Please. I give this to you as it was given to me. Drink."

When she took the bag, her fingers curled in tight enough to break right through the plastic, and she pressed the leaking bag to her lips, draining it in long, loud slurps. Castiel shivered, thinking of how long she must have been starving to be so hungry. He only wished he could give her more, but Daniel had taken the rest of them, presumably to Eric.

Daniel, Sarah and Eric. He needed to get back to them.

"What is your name?" he asked her, when she was licking the last of the blood from her fingertips. It had been smeared around her chin and jaw, down her neck to stain her thin clothes – she really was a messy eater, had probably wasted half of it on the ground or herself and Castiel wished he could give her more, but he would not allow her to feed from his Hunters and he had no idea how his Grace would affect her, if it would hurt like her blood hurt him. "Young one, what is your name?"

She paused for a moment, sucking a finger into her mouth to lick it clean, her green eyes no longer glowing as brightly as they roved up and down Castiel's body, tracing the arch of his wings, the way his dirty and well-worn clothes clung to his body. Her wings shifted again in another move that Castiel instinctively recognized as an invitation, and the Angel was so shocked he almost took a step back, before she spoke; "Don't have one."

His brow furrowed, and he pressed his lips together. "You don't have one?" he repeated, unsure if he had heard her correctly. Everyone – everything – had a name. It was one of the basic rights of existing. "Are you called nothing?"

"'Whore'," the female replied plainly, still licking at her finger and the word startled Castiel; he had not been expecting that. "'Slut', sometimes. Or 'Bitch'. But I know those aren't real names."

"Who on Earth calls you such things?" Castiel demanded, angry and ashamed that one of his children would be mocked and scorned in such a way.

She grinned wide, blood coating her teeth red, and cocked her head to one side, eyes still appraising. "Where'd the other man go?" she asked, eyelids fluttering in a way that Castiel supposed could be seductive, and he recoiled at the thought of her – of whatever had happened to make her this way. To make her react to the name of 'Whore' and bare the underside of her wings to someone that had harmed her as he had.

His wings inadvertently arched up high in defense and threat, enough that her eyes widened and she took a step back, head lowered down so that she appeared smaller than Castiel. She murmured something under her breath that sounded like a 'Sorry', but he didn't spare it a second thought; "Are you aware that behind this house, five of your brethren, almost six, have been murdered?"

Her grin grew wider, wings fluttering in what Castiel could only describe as delight. "The Cleansing is an awful time of year," she said, too lightly, too happily, and it made Castiel very Grace roll with anger and revulsion. "But it must be done. Only the loyal. Only the faithful."

"What sick abomination told you these things?" Castiel hissed, anger for a moment overtaking him in a way he had not felt for a long while. The emotion was so strong, so potent and fierce, that unbidden he found himself summoning his blade to his hand, lifting it and pointing it at her. Her eyes widened and she took a step back and she looked scared, afraid of him, but he couldn't stop, couldn't force his blade away. The anger had made his Grace overpower the dulling effect of Mocker blood on his hands and now he couldn't make it ebb like it used to so easily. He was aware that his eyes were probably glowing too, Grace forced too close to the surface with no outlet. It was dangerous, angering an Angel. "Tell me!" he demanded, voice ringing with power, and she made a frightened sound, scrambling back, her dainty wings flapping madly in an attempt to escape.

The Angel snarled, his wings arching high as he readied himself to follow her, chase her down and rip her down to all of the truths she was hiding – whatever had caused these deaths, she knew about it, she had to know about it, and with that all pity he felt for her was shredded like flesh under the claws of a monster. He would ruin her before he let her get away.

But; "Cas!" That was Daniel's voice, frantic, panicked, and he was running towards the glowing Angel, and it was enough distraction that the female Mocker managed to get enough of a head start that catching her would mean leaving Daniel and Sarah behind, and then suddenly there was a hand on his forearm, his sword-wielding arm, forcing it down.

His Grace imploded at the touch.

Castiel cried out, clenching his eyes shut and all but collapsing when he felt Daniel rest a hand on the bare skin of his forearm. His knees collided with the concrete road, pain shooting up his legs and back, and down his throat as he felt his Grace rush out of him, an outlet created in the soul who bore his mark, his brand – his Grace must have recognized it, rushed into Daniel's body because Castiel could think of no other place it could go.

He heard Daniel gasp beside him, felt the heat of the man when he fell to his knees beside Castiel, his other hand pressed tight against Castiel's wing for balance, and that just made it so much worse – desire, hot and violent shot through the Angel as though Dean had just welcomed him into his body, in the carnal way that had seemed so close to sharing Grace with his human. Tight, hot and slick around him in a way that made his skin shiver, goose bumps rising, his wings twitching and feathers puffing up in an instinctual display.

"Dean," Castiel whispered, tilting his head to one side to gaze at the Hunter – Daniel had his eyes pressed tightly shut, enough to emphasize the smile lines around his eyes, and his mouth was open, panting hard and Castiel felt dizzy. "Daniel," he said, trying again, reaching out to press a hand against the man's forehead.

When Daniel opened his eyes, they were greener, shining with Castiel's Grace. "Cas," he whispered, gasped out, his eyes flicking down to Castiel's mouth, to where his hand was resting on Castiel's arm, to the Angel's wings, then back to meet his gaze. One long circuit that left heat rising up Castiel's spine, his Grace pulsing with familiarity, and Dean's soul was luminescent inside of Daniel's body. "Cas, hey."

"You have the worst timing," Castiel replied, breathless, wide-eyed, unable to believe what he was seeing; his own Grace shining within Daniel, around Dean's soul, happy-bright-yellow and glowing.

Dean laughed. It was one of the most beautiful things Castiel had ever heard.

"Who's ass am I ridin'?" he asked, cocking his head to one side, breaking gazes with Castiel to look into his surroundings. Almost at once his eyes narrowed, and he swallowed hard enough that Castiel could hear the click in his throat. "Why are we here?"

"You're aware?" Castiel asked, eyes wide, disbelieving. Had his Grace been the jolt that Dean needed to become fully aware? What was happening? Why wasn't he fading away? "Dean, please, I don't know…" He reached out, wrapped his hand around the man's forearm, and forced Dean to look back at him.

At once the Hunter's face softened, looking on his mate and Angel. "It's gonna be okay, Cas," he whispered, quick to reassure the Angel, though it seemed to do a fat lot of good – Castiel still looked so lost and scared. "Now, I don't know what kind of shit you've gotten yourself into," Dean continued, serious, catching Castiel's chin before he could look down and away like he was always about to whenever his eyes darted away like that, "but you and me, right, we're gonna work it out."

"You're going to be so disappointed in me, Dean," Castiel replied, unable to stop himself saying it, eyes falling closed as he finally fought for free rein of his head and Dean let go. "I've…everything is…"

"There's a lot goin' on, Cas, but it can wait, can't it? I promise, I'm not goin' anywhere, but you're clearly in the middle of something…" At that, Dean was suddenly standing, pushing himself to his feet and Castiel hurried to follow. It was then that Dean's eyes landed on his mouth again, but not looking at him with lust or affection, but confusion. It took Castiel a moment to remember that there was still Mocker blood staining his mouth – the burn had numbed down to a dull throb, and he hurriedly wiped at it with his forearm, hoping to erase the stain. "Somethin' big's happening, isn't it, Cas?"

"Dean." Castiel hesitated, his wings drawing in tight to his back in reluctance – the last time he had tried to say goodbye to Dean, it hadn't been well received. By the Father, how much he had missed his mate. "Dean, I'm sorry. Whatever happens – I am so, so sorry."

Dean was quick to silence him, pressing their lips together in something that felt desperate, harsher than what Castiel was used to from his Hunter – Dean was usually such a gentle lover it had taken Castiel by surprise, at first. The tenderness in Dean's soul could not allow him to be forceful unless he put effort into it.

"Dean," he whispered, in the tiny half-second between when Dean pulled away for air and met him again, and he found his hands clutching tight to the Hunter, afraid of letting him go, afraid that he would burst into flames or crumble between his fingers if he let go for even a second, but Dean was clutching him back, arms wrapped tight around his waist, fingers teasing into the edges of his wings. It felt so warm, comforting – the scene around them almost pleasant and normal. It was everything as it should have been.

But everything was wrong.

"I'm right here, Castiel," Dean murmured, resting their foreheads together, one hand smoothing over the side of Castiel's face. Another kiss, Castiel capturing Dean's bottom lip between his teeth, licking in, thirsting for a taste of his Hunter – he wished he could drink Dean's soul in through his skin, keep him in forever, as long as he could. He never wanted to be parted from Dean again.

He would have given anything to be able to stay in that moment, wrap his wings tight around Dean, whisk them away, strip his mate, relearn and remark every facet and scar and line of muscle on this new body, kiss and taste and touch every inch of him, lie between his legs as he used to, have Dean's large hands carding through his hair and his wings and whispering soothing words when he would fight for what little control he could over his release, so that he did not blind Dean with Grace. He would have given anything for that.

But there were murders to avenge, and answers to be given. Reality was a demanding little bitch.

"Dean, I have to…" He pulled away, wishing with all of his being that he could stay, pressed as close to this man, his mate, as he could get, but he couldn't – that sense of being watched, that dreadful feeling building up in the back of his skull, it was still there, pounding away like an off-beat war drum. He couldn't shake it.

"It's okay," Dean whispered, leaning in for one more taste that Castiel was helpless but to grant him. "I'll speak to you soon, Angel."

"Don't leave," Castiel demanded, but it was too late – the glow in Daniel's eyes was already fading, Dean's soul retreating, tired and sated and faintly glowing with happiness. Daniel cleared his throat, swallowing, eyes wide when he saw how close he and the Angel were standing to each other and he took a step back.

"Um…"

Castiel flushed a little, looking down as well, embarrassed that he had put Daniel in such a situation by succumbing to his own desires – but, Father, what he wouldn't give to be with Dean again. In his own body, by his side for the rest of their lives – to travel into the afterlife together, as mates were meant to. What he wouldn't do.

But he daren't speak those thoughts out loud. The wrong people could be listening.

"Is Eric better?" he asked, for lack of anything else to say, turning and stalking back into the garden where he had left Sarah and the Mockers.

"He's fine, keeps babbling for you, but he's fine – Cas." The Angel turned around, for he had little choice, Daniel's hand had found his shoulder and forcibly halted him, turning him on the spot. From where the hand touched his body, he felt like electricity was flowing, white-hot, painful. His arm tingled and he realized that, at some point, his blade had melted back into nothingness. Dean's presence had calmed him. "What the fuck was going on? You were going to kill that Mocker – I saw the look in your eyes."

"And what look was that?" Castiel replied coolly, trying desperately to remember what a poker face was meant to look like.

Daniel's expression tore at him – so Goddamn sad, and afraid. Castiel hadn't seen that look in those eyes for so long, and he never wanted to see it again. Would tear his own wings off if it meant Dean was always smiling. "Like you were gonna run her through, Cas, I don't get it. She was…Mockers are friendly, right?"

Castiel frowned, rolling his shoulders. "Something is happening that is very, very wrong in this town, Daniel," he replied cryptically, for he could give nothing away, for he truly did not know anything. "Perhaps Eric will be able to give us the answers we need. It's the only choice we have, since she was able to flee from me."

"Can't you track her?"

"…No. No, I cannot."

Eric was upright when they retreated to the garden, and had helped Sarah pull the bodies of the fallen Mockers together. He had tucked the kitchen knife into his belt, which, now that Castiel had time to notice, held up jeans that were much too loose on the Mocker's body – in fact, all of them looked frightfully thin, almost malnourished, their skin too pale under the constant light of the sun, their feathers lacking luster as though none of them had groomed each other. It was all wrong. The Mockers in the communes and breeding facilities were all sun-kissed, well-fed, and their wings shone with health, their eyes bright and vibrant. There was deadness to this place, something too still to support life, and it waswrong. Stank of wrongness and purity like the sharp edge of shattered glass.

Eric looked up at their approach, a large smile breaking out on his face. "Father," he whispered, straightening up, wings fanning the air in joy, and Castiel paused a moment, again confused by the title – he was considered the leader and father of the Mockers by a few of the older generations, but most of them had lived their natural lives long ago. To many he was nothing more than a legend; many more knew nothing of him at all. The fact that this young one was calling him 'Father', as only the original sixty-six had, was disconcerting.

And yet, somehow, comforting.

"Why do you call me that?" he asked of the young Mocker, approaching him as he carefully stepped around the pile of bodies of the other Mockers. Father, this was his fault. Whatever was happening here, it was his fault. These Mockers were ungoverned, unguided – something had happened and he hadn't been around to stop it.

You can't save everyone, Cas.

The young Mocker's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, his wings gently fanning the air behind him in a gesture of hesitance. "Because….because that is what you are," he replied, eyes flashing away from Castiel, to the watching Hunters, but they could not stray from the Angel for long, and his fingers were twisting into each other in front of him. "He…you are our Father. Our creator. We would be nothing without you."

"And who has been telling you these things?" Castiel asked, keeping his voice soft and even, stepping forward. He wanted to make his posture as unthreatening as possible, because if that Mocker had turned on him in the road, who knew what Eric was capable of. What any of the residents here were capable of? He reached out, slowly, and the Mocker didn't flinch from his touch when his fingertips brushed the side of his face. "You are too young to know of me. How?"

Eric blinked, grey-green eyes closing as he smiled a little, leaning into the touch in a way that Castiel had only ever seen with other Mockers at the facility he had left – those that had known his touch and his kindness and knew who and what he was. "Your Prophet told us," he said, smiling wide. "He's been spreading your teaching, Father. But…" Then, those light eyes darkened, a shadow passing over Eric's face. "But…things have changed. He – he took without permission. We're always meant to have permission."

"Yes, yes, that's right," Castiel replied, his other hand instinctively reaching forward to lay a hand against Eric's chest, fingers tightening in his bloodstained shirt, as it looked like the youth was getting anxious again and he needed him to focus. "And you've always done that, right? Eric?"

This was important – it was one of the first and most important teachings that Castiel had instilled in the original sixty-six Mockers, because if they started to go around killing innocents, taking their blood until they died, the result would be…

A massacre.

As though someone had unleashed a pack of flesh-eaters, monsters, on the world.

Castiel's eyes widened. "It's you," he whispered, taking a step back from Eric, who flinched as though he had been burned when Castiel's touch slid from his skin. He opened wide, frightened eyes, swallowing loudly and taking a step back as well to put distance between them. Behind him, Castiel could feel Daniel and Sarah go tense. "Those of you that live here. You've been – you've been killing people, haven't you? Taking from them?"

"No! I…" Eric was stepping forward again, his eyes frantic, afraid that Castiel would think so low of him, cast him aside just like that. No – no, he couldn't -. "I would never, Father. Ever. That's why we were being punished. The Prophet said…said that your word had changed, but I couldn't believe that, none of us…" He gestured behind him to the other dead Mockers, emotion clogging his throat, making it difficult to speak. Fear and sorrow was coloring his soul the deepest, darkest blue Castiel had ever seen – it seeped from him like dark smoke. "I couldn't do that to people. So we were Hunted down and…"

"Someone did this to them, Cas." That was Sarah's voice, cutting through Castiel's anger and confusion – he blinked, turning to look at her, found her biting her lower lip, hands clenched tight around the gun in her hand. She was tense. They all were. "Someone is making them act the way they are."

"This Prophet," Castiel murmured, turning back to Eric, "who claims to speak in my name. Who is he? Take me to him."

Eric's eyes brightened in recognition. "He will be happy to see you, Father," the Mocker replied, smiling wide, lifting his hands to his own chest and pressing them tight. Then, he hesitated, his wings dropping down in anxiety. "But he will not be happy to see me."

"No harm will come to you," Castiel vowed, wings snapping out in threat at anything that would dare try – Eric had been sentenced to slaughter amongst these others, these innocents, and Castiel would be damned if he allowed him to come to harm before finding out why. "Take me to this Prophet of mine."

The young Mocker pressed his lips together, but nodded, ducking his head down, wings dropping in submission in an almost exact mimic of the female that had attacked Castiel on the road. It was unnerving, to see that sort of display from someone so young, Eric didn't even look to be of mating age, and yet…

He shook himself of those thoughts. "Let us burn them, first," he said, gesturing to the bodies.

Eric's eyes brightened in response. "Yes, so that their souls can rest," he said, nodding his head as though confirming something someone had taught him, wings rising back up before they began to trail along the ground. "There are supplies in the house – matches, oil, everything like that."

"I'll help you," Daniel said, holstering his gun and following Eric inside, after he squeezed a hand onto Castiel's shoulder. The Angel went tense, expecting the electric, joyful shock of Dean's soul coming back to greet him, but all he felt was the slight warmth of Daniel's hand, before the Hunter was gone from him, disappearing inside and Castiel could only watch his back disappear through the doorway.

"Cas," Sarah whispered, stepping forward and reaching out to lay a hand on Castiel, to draw his attention, but he turned before she could touch him and, after a moment, her hand fell, limp, at her side. "Now I don't know what the fuck's goin' on, but I get the feeling that ten tons of bad shit is about to fall on us."

The Angel sighed. "I know," he replied, rolling his head back to look up into the too-blue, too-clear sky. Father, did the sun ever move? "If you wished to leave this place, save and protect yourself and Daniel, I would not blame you. I can…I cannot promise what will happen. Lawrence is surely damned, just as he said."

"Like fuck are we leaving you here," Sarah snapped in reply, rolling her eyes as though that was the most absurd statement she had ever heard, and the Angel couldn't fight back his smile, thinking of, for a moment, Gabriel. He had the same no-shit attitude about him, even before he left Heaven. "Nah, you're stuck with us, whatever happens."

Castiel sighed. "That is what I am afraid of."

He had not scented burning flesh and feathers for a long, long while. It stung at him, brought back memories of faces finally at rest, leather and denim and gunmetal melting into flesh, branding it, until the skin and muscle was stripped away to leave blackened, grinning skulls and ribs still bearing the sign of his protection.

It had been a very long time, but it was funny just how clearly memory could come back at the slightest provocation.

They returned to the houses once the ashes had been gathered and Castiel was sure that they would not burn the entire neighborhood to the ground, though he was tempted – tempted to ruin this entire place, where everything had started; Dean's mother's death, Sam's poisoning, the Cupid's influence to drive John so madly in love that his wife's death was inducing madness within him. Everything about this place made Castiel want to destroy, to smite, and his fingers curled tightly into his palm as he fought back the urge, tried to appear outwardly calm.

Eric led them farther into the town, and Castiel couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. Eyes were definitely on them, and it made his Grace shiver, wings arching in readiness. The Mocker leading them was getting more and more nervous as they walked, houses giving way to larger lawns and old ornaments slowly gathering dust and dirt – here, wherever here was in reference to the rest of the town, decay had set in. The houses crumbled under the weight of rain and mildew, looking more and more like the houses that they had encountered on their journey here – one had a roof collapsed in, shards of beams sticking up out of the middle like some giant animal trying to claw its way out of Hell.

Castiel pulled up short when Eric suddenly stopped. His fingers had gone back to fidgeting with each other in front of him, brows pulled together and wings pulled in tight to his back – nervous, scared, and Castiel resisted the urge to run his fingers through the Mocker's hair or wings. He was an outsider here, and was not as familiar with Eric as he was with Olivia, or Grace, or any of the other Mockers he had left behind. Besides, the dynamic here was obviously so different and Castiel had no idea how that kind of contact would be received.

"The Prophet lives in there," the young Mocker said, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the house they had stopped in front of. Of all the houses on this street, it was in the best condition – pristine, just like the rest of the town when they had first arrived, and it seemed like the sun shone brighter on this place; almost as bright as an Angel's Grace, so much that Castiel felt the odd and unfamiliar urge to shield his eyes.

Castiel's eyes narrowed, squinting, and he wondered if anyone else could see the blinding light. It was unnerving – cold, like the call of Heaven. "Thank you, Eric," he said to the Mocker, resting a hand on his shoulder and earning a smile. "If you so desire, you can leave us now. I would not put you in harm's way."

The Mocker blinked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and bit his lower lip, looking down. From somewhere, far away that it was very faint, Castiel heard a faint screeching like a bird of prey, and tilted his head to one side, momentarily distracted by the sound. "If it's all the same to you," Eric said, slowly, like he was testing the words in his mouth, "I'll stay. I mean…it's not every day you get to meet God." He shrugged, dropping his hands to his sides. "And…I don't really have anywhere else to go."

Castiel's mouth twisted in a sad smile – that feeling, unfortunately, was all too familiar to him. "Very well," he said, dropping his hand away from the Mocker and turning his attention to Daniel and Sarah, who had been watching the house silently, eyes calculating – a Hunter's look assessing the entrances and exits and possible places for ambush. "I – I don't think we'll be attacked, but we should be wary, just in case."

Daniel nodded, turning back to the horses, and from the bags that Castiel had been carrying before their kidnap, he pulled out a sawed-off shotgun, a flask of what Castiel had to assume was Holy Water, and a round of bullets for the shotgun, which he handed to Sarah. He also produced a long, curved blade which he handed to Eric, who took it gingerly as though he had never held a weapon before in his life, looking at it as though it might turn into a snake to attack him – and then Daniel pulled out a smaller handgun – what looked like what had been standard issue for policemen back in the Before, when the world wasn't frozen – as well as his own longer rifle which he slung over his shoulder.

"Do you need a weapon?" Daniel asked, eyes dark and serious and, dare Castiel say it, grim. The Angel didn't expect or want an attack, but it was clear that the Hunter had no such reservations.

Castiel bit his lip, eyes flicking back to the house. He was tempted to say 'No', but he knew that Mocker blood could dull his Grace and that could prevent him summoning his own weapon to hand, and prevent him smiting any threat that might appear and attack them. He held his hand out in silence, and Daniel took out another handgun – shiny, silver, thrumming with power – and checked it for Castiel before handing it to him.

The Angel almost smiled. It was so like Dean to check his weapons, even after he had become self-sufficient. Without a word Castiel tucked the weapon into his waistband at the small of his back – he did not want to go into the house with weapons at the ready, looking for a fight. Whatever he would find on the inside, he did not want to be the instigator.

They entered the house slowly, Daniel and Sarah immediately flanking out to either side, weapons at the ready. Absently, Castiel knew that it was a beautiful house, but also that it had not been an empty one for long – there were still photo frames on the shelves, no fine layers of dust to speak of it being abandoned. It looked homely, and comfortable, from the thick, overly-stuffed cushions of the couch to the subtle gleam of the hardwood stairs. Castiel's feathers bristled with remembrance, though he could not think for the life of him why he was feeling that way. Then, to his left, he heard Daniel suck in a soft breath.

Castiel turned just in time to catch Daniel as he went flying back, colliding with the Angel and sending them both flying back until they were stopped by the wall. Castiel grunted when his wing was pinned between the wall and his shoulders, delicate bones crumbling under the blow and sending pain ricocheting up his shoulder and throughout his wing. Daniel was quick, to his credit, to get off of Castiel and clear the way so that they could both see the attacker, and Castiel stifled a low growl when he saw the redheaded female from before prowling into sight.

He raised his gun towards her, aiming it steadily between her eyes. Her eyes narrowed and she growled, wings flared out low in an aggressive display. For a long moment there was no movement, Castiel and the female staring each other down as Castiel desperately tried to gauge the situation – Eric was frozen to his left, still near the door, and he couldn't see Sarah from where he was standing. Daniel's harsh breathing was the only indication Castiel had that he was nearby, and his heart was beating quickly but he seemed otherwise uninjured – Castiel could not smell blood.

"Stand down," he told her, hoping that there was enough authority in his voice that she would simply obey, and her eyes narrowed further, low hiss spilling from her mouth. Castiel sucked in a breath, squaring his jaw, and cocked back the hammer. "I won't ask you twice."

"You never asked me once," she snapped back, icy eyes darting to Castiel's sides where Eric and Daniel were standing, and then to her right where Sarah must be, hidden from sight. "You shouldn't be here."

"He needs to see the Prophet," Eric said, speaking up for the first time, his wings fanning the air in an attempt to dispel the tension. "Our Father -."

The female shrieked, wings snapping out, her eyes flashing with barely-restrained fury. "This thing is not my father," she hissed, jabbing an accusing finger towards Castiel. "I want no father who would let me live like this!"

"Hannah, he -."

"No! Shut up!" the female – Hannah – yelled again. She began to advance on Castiel. "This thing needs to die. The Prophet cannot see him."

"I don't want to hurt you," Castiel whispered, backing away, gun still raised. "Young one, please don't -."

"Stop this! Right now!"

Abruptly the female came to a halt, her eyes widening in fear when she turned around to gaze back up the stairs. Castiel could not see from where he was standing who was up there, but Daniel clearly could, because he shifted his grip on his weapon and took a ready stance. Castiel lowered the gun, still cocked and ready. There was the sound of bare feet landing heavily on the wooden steps, old building creaking under the harsh grip of tight fingers around the bannister, and golden-tipped wings came into view that Castiel recognized, even before he saw the Mocker's face.

"Aiden," he whispered, unable to believe what he was seeing, before the face of the first Mocker he had ever known came into view.

Aiden, to his credit, seemed just as surprised to see him, but when those golden eyes landed on Castiel they were not as the Angel remembered – they were cold, calculating, tinted with darkness in a way that he had not left the fledgling before. Granted, it had been many years, but Castiel remembered enough about the young man to recognize this drastic change within him. Beside him, Eric went tense, wings tucked tight to his back, when Aiden's glowing eyes landed on him.

His lip curled back. "Glad to see you survived," he hissed, tone cruel and mocking, and Castiel's Grace flared at the wrongness of it; he had known Aiden, raised him from a very young boy; taught him everything he knew about Grace and God and the right way of living. Clearly, something had gone very wrong. "And you," Aiden's eyes landed on Castiel. "Long time no see, Castiel."

"Wait, you fuckin' know this guy?" Daniel demanded, gesturing with the end of his gun towards the Mocker, and Castiel could only swallow and nod mutely, fingers of his free hand twitching by his sides.

"You did this," he said, heavy with realization. "You killed them, or had them killed – you knew I would find out, one way or another, and would come here."

"I thought it slightly poetic," came Aiden's reply, accompanied by him raising one shoulder in a shrug. "It seems a place where we are destined to meet the ones we love." His eyes flicked to Daniel in a way that made Castiel's shoulders tense, feathers rustling and standing on edge. "And where we lose them."

Daniel's answer to that was to raise his gun, aiming it for Aiden's chest, but there was a soft 'click' from the gun and it began to heat up in Daniel's hands, glowing white-hot until he cursed and dropped it to the ground. At the sound of her fellow Hunter's shout, Sarah stepped out from where she was hiding, gun cocked and ready and aiming for the redheaded female, another in her hand focused on the back of Aiden's head.

"Aiden," Castiel said, trying to keep the Mocker's attention away from Sarah; "It's not too late. Whatever has been happening here… I'm sorry I left you; clearly it was the wrong thing to do. But I'm here now -."

"Bullshit," Aiden hissed, wings flaring out in an aggressive gesture that had everyone gathered shifting their weight, ready for a fight. Castiel's wing flared up in pain when he tried to flex the crumpled appendage. "You're only here because I brought you here – and when you're done, you'll leave again. You'll go where he goes." He jerked his chin in Daniel's direction, and Castiel didn't dare break gazes with his pseudo-Child to meet the surely-confused gaze that the Hunter was leveling at him, so he did not see Daniel's reaction. "You always leave. Everyone leaves." Aiden's glowing eyes abruptly went flat, the light in them blinking out, as he raised his chin and spread his wings. "Natalie is dead."

Castiel swallowed. "I'm sorry," he said, sincerely, and took a step forward despite the warning growl that spilled from behind Hannah's clenched teeth. "I know how to feels to lose a mate -."

"And a father?" Aiden snarled, slowly stalking down the stairs. His steps were heavy, weighted too much on one foot more than the other; he was injured, though Castiel could not tell how. As Aiden moved closer, Castiel could see the line of blood around his teeth. "I trusted you," he said. "And she died. Cut down by a werewolf, of all things. These humans -." His eyes left Castiel's, briefly, sliding to Daniel's, then back. Sarah stepped closer on Castiel's other side, still largely out of sight from the Mocker. "They are broken, and lost, and we are simply meant to hold their hands while they walk off the cliff edge? Who would teach us this way of life?"

"So, killing them's your way out?" Sarah finally said. Aiden blinked, surprised when he tilted his head to catch her in his sight.

The Mocker's lips thinned out, and he said nothing, but his eyes sparked again.

"You call yourself my Prophet," Castiel murmured, stepping close. He could reach out and touch Aiden now, and he did, reaching out and fisting a hand in his loose, sweat-stained shirt and pulling him in. "You have raised an entire faction to believe that I am a God; that I am their Father. Why?"

Aiden shook his head, fingers curling gently around Castiel's hand and forcing him to let go. His knuckles went white around the Angel's hand, and Castiel frowned down at the crushing grip. A human's hand would be dust under Aiden's grasp right now.

"Is that not what you are?" Aiden finally asked, after what felt like an hour of him carefully watching the Angel's face, looking for any weakness, any flinch, anything he could take and twist. "Is that not what you've always been? An absent, vengeful God who creates and loves as long as those he has created do not turn away from him. Tell me, Castiel." He shoved Castiel's hand away. His shirt tore in the process, revealing the thick, silvery scar of a sigil carved into his chest. "Have others of my kind suffered as I have? Have you abandoned them as well?"

Castiel knew that sigil – faintly, etched into the first pages of Dean's forgotten journal. He knew that sigil. "Who did that to you?" he asked, his hand shaking as he gestured to the ugly, swooping silver lines. But he knew. He knew, because as familiar as the sigil was, it had been altered – he could see the etched lines of his true name in there, as well as the name of one other. "When did Crowley appear to you?"

Aiden lifted his chin, his wings snapping out and up in a defiant gesture. "Soon after Natalie died. I knew demons weren't around anymore, but it never hurt to try."

"You tried to make a deal?" Castiel knew he sounded hopeless, completely lost; he knew far too many good people who had succumbed to the allure of Hell and all of its promises. It was so strange how humans never seemed to be able to grasp the concept of eternity, and how whatever they were asking for paled so much in comparison to that. "Oh, Aiden, no."

"My faith is keeping you alive," the Mocker hissed. "It's keeping you both alive. But that doesn't mean you can't die. I know you can die." He stepped forward again, right into Castiel's space. The floorboards creaked underneath them as Daniel shifted his weight, and Castiel knew, though he could not see, that he was ready to throw himself between the two creatures at even the first sign of a threat. "You've lived long enough,Father. It's time to rest now."

"No!"

But it was too late; the female turned around and, with her wings, knocked at Sarah's weapons until the Hunter fell to one side, and then Hannah was on her, claws ripping at whatever part of her she could reach. When Castiel looked back, a fierce pain pierced through his stomach. Aiden had gotten hold of a weapon – a long, gleaming sword – and had slid it through his stomach with one sure thrust.

"Cas!" Daniel yelled, but Castiel did not feel his hands on him. Blood welled up in his mouth and he coughed, spilling it onto the metal handle. Aiden's fingers were still wrapped tight around it, the Mocker pressing himself close and holding Castiel within his wings, a gentle hand cupping the back of Castiel's head to keep him upright.

"I'm sorry, Father," Aiden murmured, leaning down to press his mouth against Castiel's blood lips, growling at the burn of Grace, "but even Gods must die."

A gunshot rang out and Aiden fell back, clutching at his face where a bullet had grazed, and Castiel fell to his knees, and onto one hand against the bottom step. He dared not pull the blade out, but the pain was excruciating – it had cut upwards, into the base of one wing, the feathers matted and sticky against his back.

He looked up in time to see Aiden hissing at Daniel, his eyes glowing golden and bright, before Daniel picked up his red-hot gun again and fired once more, straight into his skull. Castiel let out a choked cry as Aiden's body convulsed and went limp, his golden eyes blind and staring upwards.

A shriek broke through the air, shattering the numb silence that had taken over Castiel. There were other Mockers, now, with bright golden wings and glowing golden eyes – Aiden's sons and daughters, converging on the house, crawling from the upper floor and the rafters and coming from underneath the stairs.

"Go," Castiel hissed, pushing at Daniel's shin. "Leave! Run!"

"Not without you," Daniel hissed, and then he fell to his knees by Castiel's side, and hauled the Angel upright with a hand in his hair and another around his shoulder. "Cas! Cas!"

Castiel's eyes were hazy, his gaze unfocused, but he could recognize Dean when he saw him. He tried to speak again, but all that came out was blood, glowing with the edge of Grace.

"Possess me, Cas," Dean demanded, holding him by the shoulders, shaking him until the back of his head knocked against the wall. Dean's voice was thick, his eyes bright – he looked like a dying Angel, glowing so brightly. "Possess me! Cas, I'm saying 'Yes'! Come on – you can't fucking, you can't fucking leave me right now."

I'm sorry, Dean, he wanted to say, but all that came out was a wet cough. He could hear screams around him. They needed his help. Someone needed his help. I'm sorry. I'm not strong enough.

"Damn it, Cas," Dean hissed, and then there was a mouth on his, fingers forcing his jaw apart. His Grace-blood leaked into Dean's mouth, and Castiel could feel the pull of the soul, the desperate tug to keep his mate alive. He wasn't strong enough to resist.

His wings seized and wrapped tightly around the pair of them, shutting out the stench of Mocker blood and the sounds of death. With one last weak pulse of effort, Castiel raised his blood-drenched hand to touch Dean's face.

When he opened his eyes, he was looking at his own face; his blank, icy eyes staring straight at him, unfocused and dead.

…Dean?


	7. And then, He Rested

He took a deep breath, straightening up, and looked down at his own hands. They were – these were not his hands. He could see himself, his body bloody and dead against the wall. He was inside Daniel.

Dean?

Cas!

Light flooded him, pushing out from behind his eyelids and from the center of his hands. He looked around and saw Mockers converging on Eric and Sarah, and anger surged up inside of him. He summoned his blade.

"Leave!" he commanded, his voice ringing with power. A vessel powerful enough to house Dean inside of it would be another iteration of the Michael Sword, and such a powerful and pure vessel gave him room to move, and stretch, his Grace flying uninhibited and spurred by the soul of his mate. The Mockers froze abruptly, their gleaming eyes fixed wide upon the image of the avenging Angel in their midst. "Leave this place. Fly far away from here."

He gestured to his corpse, the empty body with a gaping mouth and sightless eyes. "Your God is dead," he hissed. "And so is his Prophet. There is nothing for you here. Leave."

They scattered like frightened mice. Once Castiel found Sarah he wrapped a hand around her forearm and hauled her upright, taking her out of the house while the Mockers fled around them, hurling themselves into the air and disappearing into the storm. Without Aiden and without his power, Lawrence was quickly enveloped in the freezing rain and wind that had tormented them for so long. Nearby, the horses whinnied in fear as they were suddenly pelted with ice, the sun above them blocked out by the grip of the fearsome storm.

"This way," Castiel said, hauling her to follow. They gathered the horses and rode, fleeing the cursed city like bats out of Hell. As Castiel rode, he felt the pressure of his Grace building, and building, and eventually it came to the point where he had to rip off Daniel's jacket and clothes, giving a sigh of relief as new wings burst free, thick and black like they had been before. Dean's soul was wrapped tight around him, fueling his waning Grace, until he felt more whole and holy than he had in what seemed like a lifetime.

They rode for miles, and when the horses needed to rest Castiel dismounted and walked with them. When Sarah needed to sleep, he secured her hands to the saddle and continued to walk. Eventually, they cleared the storm, emerging a few miles East of Ottowa.

"Finally," Sarah said, as Castiel led the horses to an abandoned farmhouse and allowed them free rein to graze. His power still surged within him, and he felt tireless. He felt renewed. But Sarah looked like Hell; her face bore long red lines from claws, her clothes were ripped and there was a dark stain of blood on her side and a dark collection of bruises around her throat.

His hand tightened into a fist. He wanted to slay the Mockers that had touched her.

"So, I guess you can just go and possess any old body, huh?"

Castiel shook his head, following her inside. There was not a lot of space for resting, but one of the stalls was empty and was comfortable enough to sit in, if nothing else. Sarah braced herself against the wall with a sigh and a gentle hiss, waving off the Angel's attempts to tend to her. "No. It is because Dean is my mate. I would not have been able to do this had Daniel been a separate soul."

Sarah hummed. "So you're sayin' my best friend was just an echo of this Dean guy?"

"I'm…not sure," Castiel replied, looking away. He licked his lips and drew his wings in tight around himself. "But an Angel requires permission to take a vessel – Dean gave me permission, and Daniel did not. So I have to assume that Daniel was never a primary part of the equation."

"Well, that sucks balls," Sarah said. "What the fuck are we even meant to do now?"

Castiel sighed, and shook his head. "Aiden had a sigil carved into his ribs – it was a sigil that used to signify belied, but it had been altered. There was a spell around that sigil, where if a group believed hard enough, or if the faith was that strong, then those beliefs would become fast." He rubbed at his eyes. "The sigil was centered around my name, and another. Crowley's."

"That demon asshole?" Sarah asked, sounding a mix of surprised and disgusted. "So, what, you guys basically brainwash people into believing you're Gods?"

"I didn't do anything like that," Castiel hissed defensively, shooting her a glare although, in the darkness, he was not sure she could see him. "I raised Aiden myself, and I helped his parents and all the others of the original Mockers. Crowley must have turned them against me, and made it so that he could not die."

Abruptly, he stopped, eyes widening in realization. "He made it so that he could not die," he said again, softly. Of course. Of course. Because where would a demon go when they died?

Hell was shut. There was no answer.

"But you killed their Prophet," Sarah said. "And yourself, I guess, by extension. Does this mean you'll die eventually too?"

Castiel nodded, a smile breaking out across his face, unbidden. "Yes," he said, unable to conceal his happiness at the thought. "Yes. I will die. Just like a human. When this body dies – when Dean dies, so will I."

He tilted his head back, a laugh bubbling out of him, breaking the cool silence. He closed his eyes, his hands resting over his stomach, and he shook his head, and laughed. Inside of him, Dean's soul was practically dancing for joy, glowing behind his eyes, curling around the strong base of his wings.

We will go together.

Just like Thelma and Louise, right Cas?


End file.
